A Drop and a Ripple
by Chernika
Summary: A hume, a viera. Too different, not different enough. Set pre-, during and post-FFXII, then during and post-Revenant Wings. BalthierxFran, one-sided AshexBalthier, one-sided BaschxAshe.
1. A Viera Walks into a Bar

**_A Viera Walks into a B__ar_**

"Hear they're gonna be marrying the Dalmascan princess off."

"Oh, really? She's of age already?"

"Turning seventeen as of this summer."

"That's a tad young. But I guess that's the way them royals are. Who's the lucky guy?"

"The Nabradian prince. It's a good strategic alliance, what with Archadia throwing its weight around lately. Can't be too careful."

"_Haa_, I do not understand why we have to put up with the imperials parading around the city. This is free territory, _hanta_."

"Yes, but the marquis, he does not have a choice, you see. Surely you remember what happened in Landis? I am certain they can make the whole _purvama_ crash, if they have a mind to."

"_Kastam_…"

"So a viera walks into a…bar…"

"Eh? What's the matter?...Oh, wow…"

"Yeah, he wasn't very happy at all…Wait a second, is that…a viera?"

"Gods alive, take a look at those legs…and that body…"

"…and that butt…"

"That's what you call a surprise, kupo…"

"Hey, d'you reckon I could…talk to her?"

"Kupo? I'd dare you, but I don't want to have to explain to your wife how you died…"

A small, shallow sigh escaped her. She was used to this; after all, she got the selfsame reaction almost anywhere she went. Her kind was so rare in the streets of Ivalice that some people even thought they were a myth. It was somewhat disheartening to witness every day how much progress remained to be made. This was why she had left the Wood. From talking to the very few other viera she did meet, she also knew that more would eventually follow after her. One called Dera—their paths had crossed in Nalbina—had said that her kin were not as severe as they should have been when she left. The shelter of the boughs was becoming too quiet for some of her sisters; it was just a matter of making the first step. But it was a slow and lonely process, which required a lot of strength. Strength to renounce one's past, strength to live a stranger in strange lands, strength to accept, to learn and to tolerate. And patience, lots of patience. But that was something viera usually possessed in abundance. Still, she wouldn't have minded to be spared the staring episode from time to time. Just to feel that she belonged more than she did.

The room was small and rather stuffy, but it would have to do. Bhujerba, with its slopes and cobblestones, certainly wasn't the best place for her needle-sharp viera heels, and her strained calves demanded rest. She glided past the staring eyes, slow and light, unfazed and majestic, despite the tiredness, the sore muscles and the curious aura of half-whispers that usually followed her in public places. Given her circumstances, dignity was always her best bet. The world of humes was cruel, almost fifty years among them had taught her this much, if anything. And seeming to know your own worth was often a major step towards the others recognizing it as well.

There was a vacant table in a corner, where she proceeded to sit down, waiting patiently until the other customers resumed their own conversations, and one of the waiters gathered up enough courage to come take her order. A small glass of _madhu_. She pulled out a map of the city to locate the moogle workshops. After all, this was why she was here. Fifty years of wandering, and she had never gotten around to visiting the best airship-makers in all of Ivalice.

All the while, ribbons of words spiralled and wafted around her ears. When she first left the Wood, she found the hume world almost too strident to bear. After the peaceful, drowsy whispers of the jungle and the quiet, grave songs of the earth in Jahara, the cacophony of Rabanastre, the first hume city she came to, almost drove her out of her wits. Voices, kitchens, craftsmen, soldiers, airships, everything seemed to be screaming around her, pummelling her eardrums, and her sensitive viera ears rang when she fell asleep at night.

But she had adapted over time. She still perceived much more than an average hume, but she had learned to sort the information, to let the everyday noises slide by and to block out the tangle of conversations that seemed to cling to her as soon as she set foot outdoors. Then one day, she realized she couldn't hear the earth anymore. At first, she thought she had just stowed the voice away with the rest of the superfluous sounds, but when she concentrated, she still heard nothing. She listened more intently still, but never again could she make out anything more than the faintest of whispers. And so she knew what the hume world had taken from her. It would not have mattered as much, had it not omitted to take _her_ as well. The way she was now, she remained poised somewhere midway between the two: a past that had stepped out of her reach, and a future that was shying away from her…

Her left ear perked slightly. For the past few minutes, most of the talk in the bar had been centred on her, on the reasons of her presence, on her ears, her feet, her claws and—what she discovered was a favourite almost anywhere she went—on her sexual habits. "_That's all they care about, darling_," as an old woman in a bar in Balfonheim had put it to her once. It was frightening, to some extent, how the fact of a tribe of females living in almost complete isolation in the depths of the woods could be distorted. But then one conversation caught her attention. Evidently, some bangaa (there was no mistaking their snarling note), had taken specific notice of a newcomer.

"Hey, didja notice the fellow who just came in? Well, I might be wrong, but I think that's Balthier."

"What? You mean _the_ Balthier? The sky pirate?"

She recalled seeing the name on a "wanted" poster quite recently. The name, and a very hefty price.

"Yeah, looks like him, from what I've heard."

"Well, he's got some guts parading out in the open like this, with that kinda bounty on his head."

"Heh, he's not the kind to care. I hear he's even looking for a partner."

She didn't move, but her eyes found the bangaa, one young green one, with a long, inquisitive muzzle, and one burly, middle-aged black one, with a torn ear, sitting a few tables away from her. The black one was pointing out a man standing at the counter, with his back to them.

She'd encountered some sky pirates before, the good, the bad and the ugly, most of them little more than ruffians who had somehow come by the means to buy themselves a beat-down old carcass of an airship. Some of them had dreams, but not quite the guts, the means or the luck to see them through. And very few ever had any significant bounty placed on their heads. She remembered the sum on that Balthier's poster. It had made her raise an eyebrow. They wouldn't tie such a string of zeroes to an amateur's name. Whatever the man was, he was certainly skilled enough to warrant the trouble. And yet…

She couldn't see much of his face from her current vantage point, little more than a profile, but she could tell he was young. Very young. Granted, most humes would be young to her, by their own reckoning, but this one had, by the looks of it, barely reached his twenties.

(Just a boy…)

On the Cerobi Steppe, on her way to Balfonheim, a few years past. Just a boy as well, a skinny little fellow with big, amazed blue eyes, who thought the world was his for the taking, and she remembered sincerely wishing him well when they had to part at the city gates. She also distinctly remembered that something shuddered inside her when a caravan brought news of his death a few days later. His airship, a sad little piece of junk, had crashed over the Mosphoran Highwaste. Ironically enough, he had called it Hope…

(But this one is not like that.)

The man at the counter was dressed more finely than anybody else in the tavern. Still, it was a rather strange mixture of styles, as if he were blurring tracks.

(This one is hiding.)

The shoes were of local, Bhujerban make, with their upturned toes. The dark leather trousers, Rozarrian craft. The immaculate silk shirt and intricately embroidered vest, Archadian. The abundance of stridently coloured rings on his hands, Dalmascan. The curious twisted earrings, Nabradian. The bullet pouches at his hips and the gun at his back, rare Landisian models both, surprisingly enough. One would almost wonder why he didn't sport a shaved and tattooed head, after the Balfonheimian style, if it weren't obvious that he was going for the utmost overall elegance he could achieve. That, and his bearing gave him away. She believed it should be obvious enough even to his fellow humes. The offhand coolness of the gestures, the slow, calculated movements.

(Archadian. Most unusual, that.)

She observed him as he nonchalantly sipped his drink, and the more she did, the more she wondered. The first Archadian sky pirate she met in her long years, and surely the first one with such an impressive price-tag. He didn't seem to be the bragging kind, either, preferring to stay still and observe. Most sky pirates would already be trying to catch some unwary traveller's ear to recount their exploits. This was beginning to look more and more intriguing.

(There is only one way to find out...)

Once again, eyes turned to the corner of the tavern, as she stood up. Slowly, deliberately, she made her way towards the man at the counter.

* * *

(Another day and still nothing…I guess I can't really expect miracles. Still, those imperials in the streets don't make for a very agreeable stay. Maybe I should try my luck in Rabanastre next.)

He raised his eyes to look for the bartender, and found him intently staring at something behind him. At the same time, he noticed the almost unnatural hush that had descended over the whole room, with conversation dropping to animated whispers. That's when he registered the slow tapping of heels at his back. They stopped. And then a woman's voice:

"You are looking for a partner, are you not?"

Now that…that was something he had never heard the likes of. The timbre had a husky, eerily juicy feel to it. It pouted and caressed at the same time. It teased the ear, yet kept its distance. It _tasted_ like a sharon fruit, he could almost feel the sweet, raspy, pulpy texture on his tongue.

He turned around, slowly enough, he hoped, not to betray his interest in what the owner of such a voice could look like.

And whatever he expected, it was definitely not what he actually saw.

From her curiously-shaped, outrageously high-heeled shoes to the spotted black tips of her long white ears, the viera—for it was, of all people, a viera; how he hadn't noticed her when he first came in was beyond him—radiated calm and self-possession. She wore hardly anything, after the fashion of her kind, yet it somehow didn't look as startling as it should have done. Interminable, coffee-hued legs, narrow hips, the pale sheen of a transparent, gauzy stomacher in her rather summary armour, the dizzyingly low line of her bodice, long, wiry fingers with claws of a deceptively innocent, mother-of-pearl hue, a cascade of almost distractingly soft-looking white hair framing a delicate round face, with its characteristic, perkily upturned nose. And those deep, placid ruby eyes…In fact, he tried not to focus on them too much. This kind of perfect self-control was rare. Rare enough to make even his curiosity betray him.

(I would never say it out loud, but…dear gods…)

There were advantages to having been raised as Archadian gentry however. If nothing else, it taught one circumspection, tact and flawless manners. Independently of whether one's father later became a raving lunatic…

Exactly why that particular thought decided to flit through the back of his mind just then, he didn't choose to wonder. Instead, he concentrated on keeping his composure. It would not do to stare at a lady, much less to leave her question unanswered.

He was a boy, just as she had guessed. In years at least. His frame was rather spare, narrow-chested and lean, hardly suited for a rough trade, just as his thin white hands, with their delicately groomed fingers. There were hardly any lines on his face at all, except that little one between his eyebrows, where something in his life had already left its signature. His hair had the hue of desert sand, his skin a beautiful, uniform paleness that also seemed strikingly incompatible with a pirate's lifestyle. His nose was long and thin, with a slight hitch at the tip, characteristically Archadian, conferring him the slightest, strangest hint of fragility. But his honey and amber eyes had a shrewd, wary glint in them. She would certainly not find blundering youthful innocence here. His mouth…She could almost _see_ the traces of kisses still lingering on it.

(So he is that kind then. What do the humes call it? Womanizer?)

He was taken aback, and rightly so, but it was rare to see someone actually remember decorum at being addressed by a viera. She could feel his eyes surreptitiously snaking over her, with unmistakable appetite, but another hume would have barely perceived it. For that, she was thankful. All that actually registered on his face was mild surprise.

"Well, this is rather unusual. You do know what, er…line of work I'm in, don't you?"

She nodded, with a faint inward smirk. His voice rippled like velvety, heady wine, and also had that distinct, haughty Archadian note in it; once again, he belied his years. She knew he'd had his share of victims.

"I am acquainted with your kind, fear not."

The amber eyes squinted, and she knew he was trying to read her.

"Right. Well then, what…shall we say, credentials do you have to offer?"

This time, the corners of her lips tilted up slightly.

(Womanizer he might be, but he is certainly not a fool. Caution first, this is good.)

"I have knowledge enough in the field, if that is what concerns you. I have hunted marks before, and I have skill in battle."

For the first time, he noticed the elegant longbow at her back. This seemed to provide sufficient proof.

"And you are sure that you want to do this?"

Once again, she nodded.

"I am looking to experience new things. Your 'line of work' seems…interesting."

He observed her for a moment more, then smiled approval and extended his hand.

"Balthier, at your service."

Her hand was pleasantly cool to the touch, and firmer than he expected.

"Fran."

Without letting go, he motioned slightly with his head for her to lean in closer, lowered his tone, and, by habit, spoke to where her ear should have been if she were a hume.

"I shall meet you in the alley by the private airship docks come dusk. To discuss details and such."

She nodded yet again, and it served as both acknowledgement and farewell this time, as she took her leave right away, gliding through the staring crowd and out of the tavern door, giving him an opportunity to appraise the full list of her assets.

Once she was gone, he turned back towards the counter and the envious gawk of the bartender, with a slight, disbelieving shake of the head.

"Looks like my day just got better…"


	2. Shades of the Unexpected

**A.N: **I realize I should probably add some remarks about the story at this point. I wanted to explore the unseen aspects of Balthier and Fran's relationship, the other side of the "ladies' man" and "ice queen" personas we're given to see in the game. So the first few chapters cover their getting to know each other, learning to collaborate and to trust. The first chapter started off two years prior to the game. This one consists of three snapshots of the first period of their collaboration.  
_

* * *

_

**Shades of the Unexpected**

He had sky-pirating in his blood. Ever since he first decided to run, ever since he first laid eyes on the little beauty that was his Strahl. Ever since he realized what his father had become. Four years ago, he had welcomed him back from his trip to Jagd Difohr. He still remembered it painfully clearly. When he had asked him if his exploration had been successful, he had laughed. A strange, knowing little cackle—there was no other word for it. As if he were laughing _with_ someone…and not with him.

"Oh, yes, most successful, my boy. Most successful, wasn't it?" he had added under his breath.

And whether it was the evening sun, or some other trick of the light, he didn't know, but the glint in his father's eyes at that moment had been one that sent a chill down his spine.

Back then, he was a boy of sixteen who had no idea why he was studying in the Military Akademy, no idea how he had ended up in a Judge Mediator's armour, but a very definite sensation that he was on the wrong track. So much deceit, so much servility, practically crawling at the mere mention of the name Solidor, or of any of the Judge Magisters. Snakes and hyenas, backstabbing and begging for scraps, and whatever definition of justice was included in the job description, it was a mere formality. The only reason he ever decided to put up with it was because it had been his father's wish. But the man who came back that day wasn't his father. And then none of it made sense anymore.

He'd first heard about the Strahl in a discussion Dr Bunansa was having with his main engineer, how she was too costly to maintain and should be scheduled for scrapping. Then he'd had a glimpse of her through one of the dock bays, and the rest…the rest was history. History of the desperate escape kind. History that included shaky flights, dubious activities, a plethora of—mostly nameless—lovely women, but best of all, freedom, complete and uncompromising. He felt alive, and he knew he had finally steered onto the right course. Or at least, it seemed so much like the right course that he never wanted to believe it could be otherwise.

(Four years. You'd think I'd be doing this right by now. How did this blasted fool find me?)

He stood very still, pinned against the wall of the large cargo craft's storeroom by a lone guard's sword, apparently very eager to be more closely acquainted with his neck.

"Gig's up, sky pirate. Ain't got nowhere to run now, do we?"

He cringed. To be caught by such a mumbling fool. He almost had a mind to correct his grammar, but infuriating a man who was tickling his jaw with a blade didn't strike him as a particularly good idea.

The ship—a lumbering, run-of-the-mill, Archadian cargo vessel—was bound for the capital, docking in Bhujerba for repairs. Word was on the street that it was filled with plunder from the Empire's latest forays along her northern marches. Now, how was a sky pirate to resist such a perfect occasion of both furthering his own financial affairs and playing a good prank on the imperials? Especially if said sky pirate had a personal bone to pick with the latter.

They'd made their move at nightfall. Fran efficiently neutralized the guards with her bow and soft-tipped, soporific arrows, perched high up on the rafters of the dock. The woman's agility was incredible, as was her stealth. Apart from the faint whiz of the shafts through the air, there was absolutely no way for them to spot her, crouching catlike and silent right over their heads. This was already their third job together, but he had to admit her marksmanship still didn't fail to impress him.

Speaking of Fran…where was she? He had instructed her to keep watch at the ship's door, but if this guard had managed to slip through…who knew what was going on outside?

But he didn't have time to ponder on the subject any longer. Suddenly, two sets of long, coffee-hued fingers slithered over the jeering guard's shoulders, both indexes pointing translucent pink, but very sharp claws at his jugulars. Fran's mouth was at his ear.

"I would not do anything as rash as this, if I were you," she purred menacingly.

If he'd had the leisure to think, he would have expounded at length on the "dear gods" that crossed his mind once again at this new inflection of her voice. As things stood, however, he was mostly relieved that she had shown up just at the right moment.

"Perfect timing, my lady huntress," he beamed at her, and was rewarded with a wily smile.

"A sky pirate who does not watch his back soon becomes a dead sky pirate," she quipped.

"Eh, spare me the criticism, I know you win this round," he grumbled, "Just help me tie this fellow up."

* * *

"Kupooo…"

The little white moogle stood at the entrance to the engine compartment, scratching his long, silver-lined ear.

"What is it, Nono?"

"Oh, Master Balthier, you've come. This is really something, kupo, you have to see it."

And he slowly pointed a finger at the inside of the compartment.

Balthier peered inside as instructed, and his expression took on a very similar appearance to the moogle's. Her shoes discarded on the floor, her long legs folded out of the way underneath her, Fran was busy rooting around the entrails of the main engine.

"What the…?"

She seemed to pay little heed to the two bewildered faces that followed her every movement, proceeding to leave a large smudge of oil on her forehead as she pushed a stray strand of hair out of the way.

"It's incredible, kupo. She asked me if she could help out, and the next thing I know, she's fixing things as if she's been doing this all her life!"

"There, it is finished, I believe."

Fran's voice had a satisfied note in it. She stood up, reaching out for the piece of cloth Nono was holding out to her to wipe her grimy hands.

"And here I was, thinking that viera didn't have a clue about mechanics, kupo."

She smiled as she fastened her shoes back on.

"Viera who do not take interest in mechanics do not have a clue about it," she corrected, "we are not all alike."

With a disbelieving shake of the head, Balthier took the piece of cloth in his own hands and motioned to her to stand still.

"You are really full of surprises, my lady engineer," he grinned, rubbing at the smudge on her forehead.

* * *

"You won't find fine arrows like this just lying around anywhere, guaranteed," the large blue seeq grunted as he eyed the viera with his beady black eyes.

Fran gingerly picked up a bundle of shafts and observed it meticulously. They seemed decent, but nothing out of the ordinary. She frowned a little, cast a look about the stall, but it only confirmed that there was little variety to be had. It was not surprising, considering the size of the town, so she would have to make do.

"I would prefer that we stop at a larger shop next time," she remarked offhandedly to the hume at her side.

Balthier was busy examining the contents of a bullet pouch and seemed just about as pleased as she was.

"Ah, well, it's not my fault that people in this region haven't congregated into a larger commercial centre. But I suppose I'd rather use ordinary ammunition than my bare hands."

The seeq, anxious at the possibility of losing customers, put on his most inviting grin.

"My merchandise won't let you down, sir. But I see that you and your lady are used to fine things, so how's about I give you a bargain? The bullets and the arrows here for 300g each. Whaddaya say?"

The price seemed a little high, but Balthier was about to agree. However, a look at both Fran and the seeq stopped him short.

Fran suddenly became very still. She didn't move, she didn't speak, she just fixed her eyes on the merchant's face and held them there, unflinching. She wasn't just staring, she was practically boring a hole through the seeq's skull.

The merchant paled very visibly. He seemed to want to avert his eyes from that steely glare more than anything else in the world, but he stood transfixed, incapable of moving. All he could do was to suddenly start shivering uncontrollably, every inch of his large body wobbling like a bowl of Nabradian jelly.

"P-p-please, b-b-by all means, 200g f-f-for the lot! S-s-sorry!"

Fran seemed satisfied with the answer. Slowly, without taking her eyes off the wretched seeq, she opened her pouch and put the money down in front of him.

As they were returning to the Strahl, Balthier glanced back to see the merchant still shivering in his stall, casting terrified looks at the retreating viera.

"You really know how to handle your business, don't you?" he laughed, eyeing the perfectly calm Fran.

"It is only a matter of knowing the worth of things," she commented casually.


	3. Moonlight

**A.N:** Conversations on a sleepless night work wonders for a partnership.

* * *

**_Moonlight_**

He can't sleep. He lies in his cabin, listening to the steady drone of the auxiliary engines keeping the Strahl afloat. The moonlight streaks in, stealing stretches of wall, floor, furniture, bedsheets from the darkness, and his mind wanders. Its usual tracks lead back to Archades, to the place he once called home, to the demented figure toiling away at gods know what in his laboratory, towering above the city. A bitter smirk finds his lips.

(Almost like a villain from a fairy tale…)

Restless. He suddenly finds that lying down is unbearable. Getting up, he throws some clothes on himself and walks out of the room. The Strahl seems almost otherworldly, barred by oblique columns of moonlight. At the door to Fran's room, he pauses for an instant, but then continues, making his way towards the deck exit.

The Cerobi Steppe is flooded with ghostly silver. A few hundred feet below, the treetops and tall grasses themselves seem carved out of moonlight, which also traces a long, shimmering track across the surface of the sea in the distance. Barely a breath of wind on the air.

He pauses. Fran is here as well, sitting at the far end of the deck, her long legs stretched out in front of her. Whatever garment she's wearing—most likely a short nightgown—seems made of silver as well, the way it catches the light. So does her hair, and even her ears. He notices that he is holding his breath.

Fran. It's been…what? four months since that first meeting in Bhujerba? They never agreed on a definite duration. She seemed to be the kind that came and went as she pleased. Ideal for a sky pirate, admittedly, only he'd never been fully certain whether his company was to her taste, or whether it would remain so.

He finds himself wishing that it would. However unlikely it may have seemed at first, it's obvious that they make a good team. Fran is reasonable, intelligent and efficient. She's also a good deal more experienced than him, in many things. Courtesy of being a viera, most probably. He doesn't know for sure, but he remembers hearing that a viera's lifespan is three times that of a hume. How anybody would know, considering how rarely one sees viera wandering the streets, is a different matter altogether. But, assuming that is true, if she were his own age, it would make her at least sixty. Small wonder she comes up with things he has never heard of sometimes.

Fran…is also stunningly beautiful. In the evanescent moonlight, she seems almost unreal. Never mind the long white ears, the claws, the fact that, even without her heels, she's taller than him, or only has three toes on each foot. The silver haze glories in her form, cajoles her every line as if she were its own. He doesn't deny that he's harboured thoughts of seduction, many of them, but somehow, they've all left him with the definite feeling that, for once, he would be on the losing end. As if he were missing the point. What the point is, however, he doesn't know.

But he does know that he needs to be here right now.

"You cannot sleep?"

Her voice is startlingly distinct in the stillness of the night air. He closes the distance and sits down next to her.

"Neither, it seems, can you."

She tilts her head to acknowledge the obvious remark.

"There are…memories that come back, sometimes."

Her voice is thoughtful. From a glance at her face, her expression is less inscrutable than usual. There is a strain about her eyes, something which seems to be painful to remember.

"Memories of which kind, if you don't mind my asking?"

It's a rather bold move. Fran is not given to expound on her experiences, and he usually refrains from prying, even when she makes the oddest statements (such as why exactly saffron is so prized in Rozarria, he has still not quite recovered from the shock). However, the question now is something more than just idle curiosity. She seems to sense it, because she actually answers.

"The kind that leave regret in their wake."

He glances off to the side, somewhere into the silvery gloom around them.

"I seem to favour the bitter kind myself."

Her red irises are searching his face. He lets her look. He lets her gaze focus on his own and read whatever it is that she seems to be able to read.

"And what is it you see?" he asks, intrigued.

It's not that Fran is callous or unfeeling, whatever first impressions may imply. But she usually waits for the information to come to her, letting her interlocutor a way out if they do not wish to give it. She's not being excessively curious now, either. Only…more involved, somehow. He barely registers that he is willingly submitting to the procedure. It makes sense in a way that things rarely have before.

"Incomprehension, disappointment. Anger. There is sadness as well."

(Was it that easy?...)

_Was _I_ that easy?_ he almost wants to add, with all the implications that the words carry. As if there already was a past that corresponded to them, as if, somewhere along the line, he had already given in, unawares. Easy? Why, yes, he probably would be. Easy for her to understand, decipher, pick apart…easy for her to have, if she had a mind to it. It wouldn't solve anything, but he wouldn't object. Much less resist. Not when he welcomes her deep grenadine eyes as eagerly as parched soil welcomes the rain.

He doesn't address her words. Rather, he lets them sink in, lets them pick out the matching threads in the confused tangle that thoughts of his past always bring up.

"I believe one becomes a sky pirate from a need to run. Doesn't really matter from what."

Her gaze leaves his face, wandering out of focus somewhere in the space between them.

"It is fetters that you shun, then. In that, we are the same."

It's now his turn to study her features, as his eyes find them, all silver and alabaster cautiousness. He wonders if she is willing to share. Her secrets are a silent aura around her, always following wherever she goes, almost muffling her steps and gestures, and he doesn't know if there is a voice for any of them. Some part of him believes that even if there was, he might not be able to hear it. But he would like to try. And while he finds that she will not offer her eyes up for scrutiny the way he—perhaps a little foolishly—just did, she does follow up on her remark.

"The Wood…for some it is a haven. For others, a prison."

She pauses. And words slip from him of their own accord, as if something had been dammed up inside for too long.

"So is a Judge's armour."

From the way her eyes dart back to his face, this was something she did not expect.

"Strange. I would not have thought…"

"…that I looked like a Judge? Neither did I. But Dr Cidolfus Bunansa certainly thought otherwise. Or at least, he thought that Ffamran did. The name was as ridiculous as the idea. But I was as little suited to 'justice' as I was to science. He was just fooling himself. In that respect, he has succeeded admirably."

She scrutinizes his features once again, catches the resemblance, puts the pieces together.

"You are the runaway son, are you not? I remember hearing about this when last I visited Archades."

The fact that he is notorious, even in her eyes, brings a smirk to his face.

"I'm flattered that you remember, my lady street-ear."

She smiles sympathy, and he is beginning to think that talking to her by moonlight might be the best way to communicate with her.

"My father…his studies on nethicite changed him. When I was sixteen, he took a trip to the Jagd Difohr. I reckon you know the place."

Her eyes darken considerably. The name definitely doesn't bode anything good to her.

"That was four years ago. And when he returned…I couldn't recognize him anymore. Always muttering to himself…or to someone else, who knows what a madman imagines? Obsessed, consumed by his research and his stones. I doubt much else existed for him apart from that. And he didn't really exist for me any longer either. Not as my father, at least. It's difficult to bury a living man. So I ran. I damned it all to hell and I ran. Being one of the emperor's lapdogs wouldn't have been a life for me anyway."

She seems to consider the possibility, as she observes him.

"No, I believe not," she concludes, almost seriously, and yet with unusual gentleness.

"Please don't tell me you actually had to think about it," he chuckles.

"It is a good exercise for the imagination."

"Maybe so, but what a blow to my credibility," he rolls his eyes.

The light smile on her face fades away gradually, as she ponders something, and her voice is sombre the next time she speaks.

"This nethicite you mention. Dark are the workings of the stone. Garif legends speak much of magicite, yet they are strangely laconic about its counterpart. It is said to wreak havoc in men's souls, and they fear it. I would be cautious, if I were you."

"It doesn't matter now. I've left all that to him."

"Perhaps," she says, after a pause, but the thought seems to linger.

She's left a stepping stone for him, however. In daylight, he might not have taken it, but the ghostly luminescence that coats everything has been goading things unspoken out of both of them, so he lets it continue.

"Garif legends, eh? You do take to the oddest things, don't you?"

"I do not recall you ever being dissatisfied with my comments. Especially when they spared you almost certain embarrassment."

And he receives a sly look from the corner of her eye.

"Embarrassment? Whatever could you mean?"

She smiles to herself, and reverts to the point.

"I have spent about four years with the garif when first I left the Wood. I was curious of everything I could find, and I learned much from them. In their bonds with the earth, they are similar to viera. The time given them is also long. Yet they do not believe in complete isolation. It allowed me a more gradual acquaintance with the turmoil of your world. At my age and with my propensity for mischief, it was a beneficial experience."

'Propensity for mischief' earns her a delighted chuckle.

"Now _that_, I would have liked to see," he grins at her with a note of disbelief.

She darts a suspicious glance at him.

"I was a youngling back then. Fourteen, in your years. Fifty years have made me cautious since."

Naturally, he does the math. If his initial assumption about viera longevity is correct, that would make her…ninety-two now, about thirty in hume years. It's a little dizzying to realize that she's lived longer than either of the current political leaders, witnessed almost a century of Ivalice living, dying, changing…and that, despite that, she's only effectively ten years older than him.

(Only ten years…I can live with that.)

He registers the thought, a little taken aback, and leaves it suspended: there is no place to shelve it away inside his head for now. Instead, he wants to let the moonlight tell him more.

"If you had really grown cautious, you wouldn't be here, would you?"

Perhaps there is another question in his words. She raises a snowy white eyebrow at him.

"You overestimate yourself. I notice that this is something hume males are fond of."

A sandy brown eyebrow matches the movement.

"Are we bragging about conquests now? My lady pirate, you are decidedly full of surprises."

And his grin has a carnivorous glint in it.

"I intended nothing of the sort."

She tries to sound indifferent, but another wily look slides his way out of the corner of her eye.

"You would not stand a chance if I had."

He whistles, impressed.

"And there go all my certainties about you."

Her face is a strange mixture of curiosity and feigned disdain.

"Oh? You had certainties? Your kind really is brash, is it not?"

"Well, I just supposed that your lot was…above such things. You do turn down proposals quite adamantly, you know."

"You mistake my reasons. Few males are born to my kind. We are taught to appreciate the full value of _such things_."

Her voice has a didactic edge to it.

"Yes, but you've left that behind, haven't you? Or was the bragging just bluff?"

"There is a difference between a glutton and a gourmet."

"Ah, yes, touché. Very well then, I bow to your superior knowledge, my lady seductress."

It's all good-humoured enough, but he can't help that faint something inside his chest, oddly wavering between envy and…jealousy?

"If your kind took to educating us, I'm sure we could become gourmets enough, even for your taste."

His tone is almost wistful. But she avoids the bait. The only way he even knows she's aware of it is the slight twitch in her right ear.

"Not enough of us take much interest in the hume world. At least, for now."

"Ah, yes, very true. Well, couldn't you…spread the good word, hmm? Inform your kind that we are not all uncouth and unmannered?" he continues light-heartedly, possibly relieved.

She levels another haughty look his way.

"And I suppose you include yourself in that exception?"

"That is for you to tell me, my lady anthropologist. I'm not one to ring my own bell."

She observes him again, almost as if she were sizing him up, and he would dearly like to be able to read her expression as easily as she read his just a while ago.

"Even had I the mind to do as you say, it would be impossible. I would not be welcome to return."

Her voice is muffled.

"Not lightly does a viera forsake her kin."

This brings him back to reality. To the reality that they are both fugitives, castaways who refused to diligently unravel the length of life which had been meted out to them, preferring to choose for themselves. So many broken bonds…it's unlikely that they haven't left wounds. Wounds which perhaps haven't closed as well as they would like.

"Do you miss them?" he asks, now serious as well.

She is silent for a few moments.

"I have two natural sisters. Jote is the leader of our village. She pronounced the banishment. Mjrn…she was a very young child when I left, I do not know how she bears my absence. As for friends…whatever preferences I had dwindled as soon as I began showing signs of restlessness."

He nods pensively. Iron rules, cold authority, custom and expectations. He knows this too well, and if there were words that could help to allay the bitterness, he would speak them, but he doesn't know of any. And somehow, he feels that she understands this too.

"Cages come in all manner of guises, don't they?"

She looks up at him.

"But yours was a similar one, was it not?"

"Throw in a good dose of parental insanity, hypocrisy and deceit, and yes, you'd be about right. Archades is all about humouring the Solidors these days. I'm surprised how as big a lie as the Magistrate remains standing rather than collapsing on itself," he sneers.

"Your Emperor let his sons kill each other. That is explanation enough."

They both fall to following the silver moon-trail on the dark waters in the distance. And it all seems so petty by comparison. So tedious, so empty. A fleeting thought sends him wondering if this is how she sees their world as well. Her time is not the same as their time. To him, this preternaturally shimmering night is a taste of eternity. To her, it is probably something like her common lot. To him, the bickering of the imperial court was a whirlpool where he could have drowned. To her, it is probably little more than a drop and a ripple. And in the grand scheme of things, it is most likely the case as well.

"The last thing I want is to suffer the consequences of their madness," he says, trying to sound lighter than he feels, "I have the sky now; it's all that matters."

Her gaze seems to turn inwards for a moment, as if she were considering something.

"We," she finally adds quietly.

And the moonlight falls silent.


	4. Silk and Honey

**A.N: **Picking up on Balthier's infamous in-game comment: why Fran doesn't like to be tied down.

* * *

**_Silk and H__oney_**

"Stop laughing, Balthier."

Her tone is murderous. In fact, he can almost fancy her irises crackling with indignation, but this is perfectly priceless. Besides, there's very little she can do to him in her present position, provided he stays out of reach of her legs.

They have just relieved a large Rozarrian merchant vessel of its cargo, which included, among many other things a large rack of silk ribbons of such quality as to make any skilled seamstress weep. She had been securing the goods in the hull as he sped the ship away with all due diligence, considering that the owner of their target craft was obviously rich enough to allow himself the luxury of an escort.

"And this is why we have to do this more often. The less they sell, the less money they have for such unpleasantness," he grumbled as he took a rather sharp turn.

"Hang on to something down there!" he shouted in the direction of the hull, but it seemed that he was too late.

A surprised exclamation reached his ears, followed by a loud clatter and a scramble.

"Fran? Fran, are you alright?"

And as soon as they were safely out of reach, hovering behind their cloaking device, he'd clambered down to check.

And if someone had asked him right then to fly more carefully, he would have had to refuse. Not if it yielded such results.

Fran had obviously tried to grab on to whatever was closest to her in her fall, namely the rack of ribbons. Fortunately, she had landed unharmed on a pile of rugs._ Un_fortunately, she had also hopelessly tangled her arms in reams of brightly coloured silk, as the rack crashed against the wall. Now, she was lying sprawled on the rugs, arms pinned above her head, with as much offended dignity as she could muster.

Her nostrils flare.

"This is not funny…"

"Oh, but it is," he chuckles, "it is."

The image of a furious, _tied down_ Fran is just too rife with suggestion to elicit any other reaction, and he knows that she sees the glint in his eyes.

"Would you please untie me instead of snickering like a fool?"

She's trying her best to remain polite, but by the way her chest heaves, it's plain that she is positively seething. Still grinning broadly, he takes a few tentative steps forward, to ascertain that she will not try to kick out at his shins. Who knows what a viera driven to extremities might do, even to a man she's been putting up with for over a year?

She sighs, and her face could not have scorn written more plainly over it as she follows his movements. She even crosses her legs, as if to emphasize her disdain. However, as he crouches next to her, the bright wrath in her irises gradually dims to a darker hue of attentiveness.

She's never seen quite _that_ expression in his mellow amber gaze before. Of course, she's familiar with that look, she's witnessed it a number of times in other eyes and followed it up on occasion. But this is Balthier. The partner, the friend, the—and she has to admit this to herself—confidante, despite whatever his activities with members of the fairer sex of his own race might be. Despite the insolent languor of his limbs, the lean, sculptured elegance of his hands, the nonchalant, feline grace of his movements, of his voice, of his eyes, and the decidedly maddening volutes of his mouth…

Her right ear twitches almost imperceptibly. He pretends that he doesn't notice, although he's grown accustomed to this. He's not entirely certain of what it means, because all that ever accompanies it is a silence, and Fran's silences are numerous and about as many-hued as a sun-snake's new skin. However, he knows which context it appears in, and it intrigues him.

He lets his eyes linger, travelling slowly up the entire length of her legs, over her abdomen and her chest, caressing every curve as he has seen the moonlight do once. When they reach her face, his right eyebrow rises ever so slightly, bearing witness to the faint whirr of confusion in her gaze. But he continues upwards, finally letting his gaze rest on her trapped wrists.

"Now," he begins, and his tone is lower than usual, "do I assume that it's safe for me to release you? Or will righteous retribution ensue?"

Her anger at being caught in such a ridiculous situation has vanished somewhere, she couldn't pinpoint where or when, but when she reaches for it, it's not there anymore. Instead, she finds something hazy and indefinite, which catches in her throat, sends a feather-tickle through the inside of her ribcage, and reflects itself in the thick honey of his eyes.

"Untie me," she manages in the steadiest voice she can muster.

He can hear there is no anger in her tone now, but uncertainty and wariness, as if she were gauging, expecting his next move, and he knows that one step out of line could spell ruin for so much more than this instant.

"Very well," he complies, tilting down to his knees for better stability, as his hands reach up for the silk around her wrists.

The movement is slow, perhaps deliberately so, because he wants to hold her eyes as long as he can before he transfers his attention to her bonds. And while he's still smiling from lingering laughter, something pools in the depths of his pupils. And she would say she is afraid, but it's also fascinating in a way that she cannot explain to herself.

She starts ever so slightly when she feels his fingers busying themselves with the ribbons, inexplicably cool against her skin, somewhere above her head, almost light-years away, and she is reprimanding herself for whatever this is. If she could just get up, this would all disappear, it would have to.

Almost in spite of herself, she gives a small impatient tug at the silk.


	5. In the Motions

**A.N: **A short, casual chapter to illustrate habit. Before everything starts getting a lot more complicated...

_**

* * *

**_

_**In the Motions**_

"Nothing to worry about, it's just a scratch."

Yet he grimaced noticeably as he readjusted the strap of his gun. One of Fran's eyebrows slowly ascended.

"There's a fang sticking out of your shoulder, Balthier…"

"Details, all details."

He tried to wave away the fact that he was starting to see fireworks every time he had to move his left arm, and crouched somewhat awkwardly to ascertain if the large snake's skin was worth anything.

With a small sigh, she crouched next to him, taking hold of his good wrist and pushing him to a sitting position against a nearby rock. And despite the fact that his shoulder sinews felt as if someone were trying to cut them off with a blunt knife, he still managed to be flippant.

"Easy there…ow…I didn't know you liked it rough like that."

And the stare that Fran gave him forced out a little chuckle. She steadied his shoulder with one hand, gripping the loose end of the fang with the other one.

"Now, don't move, or this is going to hurt even more," she warned, and he clenched his teeth in anticipation.

One sickeningly painful tug to end the fireworks in an apotheosis, and the fang was out, along with an abundant spill of red on torn white silk. He grimaced again.

"I liked this shirt…"

Fran levelled another glare at him.

"You are lucky that the snakes in this region are not poisonous. Yet you are concerned about a _shirt_?"

"Precisely," he protested, "if my welfare's not at stake, then surely I must worry about the next most important thing."

"What about the risk of infection?" she asked, as she threaded a claw through the slit in his sleeve to make it larger, so that she could inspect the wound.

"Ah, but my lady physician, I know you won't let that happen," he grinned, choosing to disregard the fact that she had just effectively made his shirt irrecoverable.

She rolled her eyes. Obviously, her reprimands weren't having the desired effect.

"I am merely interested in how many other logic-defying ways you can find to injure yourself," she remarked, gently covering the wound with her hand and starting to concentrate on a cure spell.

"I'm sure you are," he smirked, momentarily closing his eyes at the relieving sensation of magic coursing under his skin.

She might have pointed out that he could cure himself just as well. Only she knew he liked it better this way. And, she had to admit, so did she. After all, the ministrations were reciprocal, and she definitely knew she enjoyed the attention when she was hurt.

He might have pointed out that cure spells worked just as well from a distance. Only he knew that she was more reassured this way. And if his own motives were any indication of hers, there was a chance that she enjoyed the excuse for a lingering touch just as much as he did when the roles were reversed.

"Now, do me a favour and don't aggravate any more snakes for today," she grumbled playfully as she helped him up.


	6. Two Ways to Fall

**A.N: **As promised, things start getting a lot more complicated. Timeline-wise, this is, presumably, taking place a few weeks before the actual game.

I also want to thank those who have taken the trouble to review this so far. I hope you're still enjoying the story.

* * *

**_Two Ways to F__all_**

To a viera, the first characteristic of almost anything or anyone was a scent. The musky signature of a coeurl on the prowl, the cool grey smell of rain, the vanilla aroma of moogles, the oily iron trail of an airship…

He smelt of ambergris. It had taken her a little while to place this particular note, but she eventually remembered the perfume stalls of Rozarrian markets, and how they literally assaulted her nose every time her wanderings took her there. This particular scent wasn't a belligerent one, however. It was wily and refined. Delicate and heady at the same time. Perfectly suited to him.

Pure ambergris had always been a rare occurrence. Almost permanent residence on the Strahl left greasy paw prints on nearly any other smell. Every once in a while, alcohol stumbled across in dizzy whiffs. The acrid rasp of gunpowder always joined in when fighting was the order of the day. And then of course, there were other olfactory impediments…

She was neither blind nor oblivious. After all, she had noticed it the very first time they met. Where kisses lingered on his lips, various perfumes frequently mixed in with his own, never repeating, steadily changing. She thought she had made her peace with the idea. After all, who was she to judge? Yet one day, a question intruded. It asked her what she would do if she ever noticed that one of these secondary scents became recurrent…

She did not like the thought.

Naturally, another question presented itself. It asked her why.

She refused to answer.

Because of her viera blood. Whatever her choices in life had been or would be, nothing would ever change that, and for the first time in her life, she had a vague, fleeting wish that she could have been born a hume.

Absurd.

Because of her ninety years in this world, and the hundred years that would follow his, all life-threatening incidents being ruled out.

Three lifetimes. She didn't know if she could bear losing the second one in volutes of tainted ambergris.

Because for all Her harshness and blindness, the Wood could never be accused of not loving Her children. Pain was every living creature's common lot, but one thing the Wood believed She could avoid by preventing them to leave: the pain of a broken heart.

She's had thoughts, questions, compliments, curses, desires for humes. But a heart…She has never had a heart for a hume.

Not until this one.

* * *

He wakes up to a stray sunbeam that has decided to play with his eyelashes. The morning is well underway, and he usually sleeps on the other side of the bed to avoid this. It's the first reminder that he's not alone. The strain on the covers and the diffuse warmth at his back complete the picture. And yes, he does need reminding.

The girl was upfront and straightforward. Too straightforward, but he wasn't sober enough to be picky. She probably wasn't either, despite her obvious triumph at having landed a famous sky pirate. Nothing remarkable had ensued.

He sighs, grimacing from the relatively mild hangover, and turns to face her for a moment. She's pretty enough, with dark brown hair in a short bob, now splayed haphazardly over the crumpled pillow. But he could swear that, for a moment last night, he'd fancied—or wished, it doesn't matter—that her hair was considerably longer. Lighter. Much lighter. Silvery white, to be more precise.

He knows exactly what this means, but he doesn't want to go there. Not when she's still here, in the room, in the bed. Even though he knows that she wouldn't care. And he shouldn't either, but…

For the first time in his life, he is disturbed by the fact that he doesn't know her name.

She blinks herself awake and gives a slight, delicious stretch. Obviously, there are no such qualms in her mind.

"Hey, gorgeous," she grins sleepily as her eyes focus on him.

He merely sketches what he hopes is an agreeable enough smile in return. She catches his drift, and it doesn't seem to upset her in the least. But this time, he feels uneasy at how tacit it all is. How…mechanical, almost. And he is certain that it wasn't what he wanted to feel when he was imagining her with long silver hair and darker skin.

"Time to go, huh?"

The girl's voice brings him back to reality.

"I'm afraid so, sweetheart," he smiles again, uncertain if he pities her, himself, or if it's a completely different feeling altogether.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, scanning the floor for his undergarments and trousers, as she snoops around for her own clothes. The silent sunbeam that played with his eyelashes is now at his back, and if he didn't know better, he could almost fancy that it's mocking him as it paints golden light on his pale skin.

He faintly registers that she's already dressed and moves to open the door.

"So…if you ever find yourself in these parts again, drop by if you want some company," she says, letting her hand slide down his shoulder onto his chest.

It's little more than a formality, they both know it, but the sheer emptiness of the situation would be too blatant if neither said anything, so she says it. Then she looks up, because he doesn't react.

That's when she notices the viera.

Fran is an early riser. In the morning, he always finds her in the cockpit poring over maps or lingering over coffee in the kitchen quarters. But it's just his luck today that she either needed something in her room or had something to ask him.

She stands very still, except for the slight momentary quiver in her right ear. Her deep red irises move up from the hand on his bare chest and freeze on his face. She doesn't even seem to acknowledge the presence of the girl. No incomprehension. No surprise. No jealousy or anger. He has no better word for it than adjustment. The one instant it takes to wrap her mind around this situation and classify it as a slightly different aspect of a routine that she is otherwise familiar with. One instant stretched out to an eternity, as something backs away into the depths of her pupils before he has a chance to grasp it.

"My apologies."

Her voice is placid as always, but only he can hear the almost imperceptible, fading, stunned note in it. One of the things they have in common is flawless tact, and so she disappears back down the passage into the cockpit. For one irrational moment, he gets the impression that he'll never see her again.

And there's no mistaking the headlong downward lurch inside his ribcage at the thought.

The girl mumbles something about letting herself out, and her voice is miles away. He barely notices that she has spoken or that she has left. The back of his head finds the doorframe; he lets himself lean into it, and when he closes his eyes, Fran is still standing there in front of him, perfectly motionless as something escapes in her irises.

And he curses his own foolishness and her silence.


	7. Worship

**A.N: **Balthier isn't making the situation any easier. At all. This is set the night before the Rabanastre Palace break-in. Also, let me emphasize that there's no actual physical contact in this scene.

* * *

**_Worship_**

(Fran…)

The lights inside the Strahl bring out the pitch black panels of night against the windows, sending back a ghostly otherworld of images at the room. The hush that pervades every dark corner of the ship seems almost supernatural. Even the customary drowsy hum of the auxiliary engines seems quieter than usual, as if its hypnotic lullaby was part of the silence itself.

They're storming the Royal Palace of Rabanastre tomorrow. He thought it was about time they moved on to more prominent targets. She didn't object. It was all to her credit that her flawless planning made even the most problematic tasks easy.

She lets the blinds down. The obsidian glint of darkness on glass and her pale reflection in it are distracting her. She then proceeds to peruse the maps that she has spread out on the top of her dressing table. A last minute check to ensure that everything is in working order. Reaching up, she slips the long flood of her silver hair over one shoulder, and one hand starts absently combing through it, in a silky whisper, as the tender pink blades of her nails glide through the smooth strands.

(Fran…Do you know?)

One of her feet slides around the back of her ankle, pressing into her leg, relieving the tendons now that her shoes have been discarded. Her helmet is off as well, the whole slim length or her arms is bare…and she is beyond words or reason.

He stands in the doorway, uncertain of why he is still here. She might think of something to rectify in their plan, she might suggest a different course of action, she might, she might…

The only reason he's here is to look at her.

(Would you ever ask?)

He hasn't brought in another conquest since that morning. It stopped being satisfying a while before that, but now...Now it would just be self-inflicted mockery. He'd be imagining her anyway.

His eyes slowly dip down the curve of her neck from where thin white wisps gather at the nape, down the ridge of her spine to where it hollows out again underneath her bodice as it reaches the small of her back. Both of her hands are busy with her hair now, and the smooth expanse of skin between her shoulders seems to beckon to him.

(And if you do…How do I explain…)

His feet seem to move of their own volition. Slowly, he crosses over until he is standing right behind her, until he can feel her warm halo glowing before him. Looking up briefly, he catches the now habitual twitch in her right ear. Yet she doesn't turn around. In fact, she is now perfectly still, fingers forgotten in the white cascade spilling over her shoulder. His hand splays out against her back, mere millimetres away. She isn't objecting, but he won't allow himself to touch. Just a breath away, enough to feel the life pulsing underneath the downy softness of her skin.

(Do I tell you that I'm a fool? Yes, wanting you is not enough, and I understand that, but it doesn't mean you shouldn't know just how much I do.)

His index follows the downward slide of her shoulder blade, proceeding to slope back up, tracing the uneven wavelets that outline her vertebrae with his fingertip. Up, up to where the gauzy white aura trembles at her hairline with every slow breath. His palm curves to the shape of her neck, of her shoulder, and the ghost of a caress loses itself somewhere on the dark expanses of her upper arm.

(Do I say that I don't know why I trust you so much, why I try my best to understand you, why I hope that nothing will catch your fancy enough to leave…)

Both his hands rejoin at the base of her neck now, gliding downwards again, over her bodice. It doesn't matter that the cool metal of the chainmail mitigates the radiating warmth of her body, not when her waist swoons under his palms like that. The bare skin of her hips seems to rise like a sigh when his fingertips reach it, and if this were anyone else...But the heady opiate of her beauty is beyond straightforward, blind lust, and he will worship, not profane.

(Do I say…)

"_Fran…"_

And he distinctly feels the shiver when the single syllable of her name falls soundlessly from his mouth against the concave haven of her neck.

(…that I want you to tell me?

Tell me…Just once…)

* * *

The air is startlingly cold against her back, as his hands retreat, leaving stark, fiery patterns on her skin. She can still follow the path of his fingers, she can summon up the immediate memory of his warmth against her to ward off the lonely vacuity that's ready to take his place, but her mind wanders. She feels the blood thundering in her head, and she strives to clear the haze that obscures her vision. She hears him walking back to the doorway, where he pauses for an instant. And she is thankful that he can't see her face, strained eyebrows, shattering eyes, helplessly parted lips and all.

Torture, living, breathing seconds of sweet, relentless torture. It would have been so easy…But she knows the price to pay. Time, for a viera, is the most terrible punishment of all.

The scent of ambergris still hovers about her nose after he leaves the room. And beneath the grease of the Strahl, beneath the gunpowder dust…it is unmarred.

She is not so certain now that this is not worse.


	8. A Heart for a Stone

**A.N: **This is a very short, transitional chapter, but it defines the problematique for the rest of the story. It's set during the escape through the Garamsythe Waterway.

As we now hit the main body of the game events, some of the upcoming chapters will cover actual in-game scenes. Where that is the case, I keep the original dialogue. Everything else besides the dialogue (and the characters, and the general plot of the game, obvioulsy), however, is my own work, so it's not just a cop-out. I just feel that, since I'm working with canon--and, in this specific case, examining a consequent part of Balthier's reaction to the main events of the plot--the existing scenes are part of the story in some way or the other, and therefore can be integrated and referred to if need be. But I do diverge from canon in the fact that I assume Fran has lived in Jahara before, and therefore knows some of the garif.

**_

* * *

_**

**_A H__eart for a Stone_**

She has never seen nethicite before. What information she has about it is scanty and sparse, garnered from the garif's bemused, vague tales. Old Uball-Ka himself has taught her to beware, all those years ago. Yet, as soon as she sees their runaway treasure gleaming in the boy's hand, a foreboding creeps under her skin. She recalls the stories, she feels that the stone means ill, senses its suppressed, abysmal hunger. It is silent in the treasury, it is silent while they make their escape, it is silent up until they run into the girl in the Garamsythe Waterway. But then a fiery glow smoulders deep within it and spreads incandescent veins outwards, over its entire surface. It seems to pulsate, hideous and grotesque, like a living heart, as soon as the girl comes near it. As if it knows she's there. As if it knows its master.

She also notices the momentary reflection in Balthier's eyes, although she immediately wishes she hadn't. The barely perceptible, cold, hard glint. It doesn't suit the liquid honey of his irises. It is foreign, it speaks of feelings that are not his. And she feigns disappointment, but she is glad, deep inside, when the boy shows no inclination to relinquish his prize.


	9. Trails in the Dust

**A.N:** This is set during the first in-game visit to Jahara. The second part of the chapter is an actual in-game scene.

Balthier has a knack for getting himself into complications. I'm not sure why his interest in the nethicite wasn't featured more prominently than a few passing remarks in the game. Because it is there. And if you factor it in, it brings out and explains a lot of underlying tensions.

* * *

**_Trails in the D__ust_**

Distinctly aggravated, he tried to brush the dust from his shirt cuffs, which had turned from a spotless white to a dull yellowish colour. From the lush green stretches of the Ozmone Plain, you'd never guess Jahara was so…well, dusty. At least, he wouldn't have. The blue expanse of the Sogoht shone insistently under the strong rays of the early afternoon sun, and their footsteps conjured up small sandy flourishes as they wound their way through the village under the curious eyes of the garif. The sheltered knell was protected from the cool breezes that swept the Ozmone Plain during the Giza rains, and the air was thus quite unpleasantly hot. Coupled with the dust and the glare of sunlight on still water, it made for a rather uncomfortable environment, and that certainly didn't help with first impressions.

They had come here hoping to discover something—anything—about the function and use of nethicite. Although, if you asked him, the former was pretty obvious from what they had witnessed on the Shiva: total and instant annihilation. It disintegrated ships, blew metal and flesh to smithereens. It sent Fran into a blind, terrified, senseless, animal frenzy, the likes of which he had never seen before, even if he knew how sensitive she was to Mist. Clearly a very effective means of intimidation, and a potent weapon, if things were to degenerate that far…

Fran walked a little ahead of the rest of the group alongside the garif warrior they had encountered on the plain. He'd introduced himself as Supinelu. Obviously one of her acquaintances from the time when she first left the Wood. Although how she managed to recognize him behind that mask was, frankly, quite beyond him. She'd mentioned something about the size of the horns and the patterns—(how can anybody tell?)—but clearly, the details were a little too minute for him. He could hear the steady, measured drone of Supinelu's voice, low enough to make the words unintelligible from this distance. Probably asking her about her travels since she left. Catching up, as they say. Perfectly cursory behaviour.

(Then why…?)

But his thoughts were interrupted by a stray breath of wind, which wafted the loose dust about his feet straight up towards his face. Dust in his throat, and more dust on his shirt. He coughed and grimaced. The first sickening throb of a headache echoed through his skull.

(She could've told me.)

The resentful remark surprised him. It's not that he never disagreed with Fran, it's just that this was so…

("Petty? Gratuitous? Unfair?"

"But she knows I don't like getting my shirts dirtied…")

He shook his head mechanically to drive the thought away.

"It's just a shirt," he surprised himself again by muttering under his breath…to whom? He wasn't sure, and what's more, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The series of hillocks on either side of the river were dotted with small wooden huts, and all around them tall figures in horned masks. He'd never seen garif before, and they weren't much like what he had imagined. Imposing, firmly built and slow, except maybe in battle, where their reflexes seemed to be more than adequate, if that Supinelu's performance was anything to go by.

Out of the corner of his eye, he observed the warrior as he now stood apart, talking to Fran. The mask made his expression impossible to read, but he could see her smiling. The garif belonged to her past, a time that he couldn't possibly have known. A time before he was born… And this should perhaps have chilled him, but all he could find in his mind was some sort of avid hunger to find out what it was they had shared, if it had been in any way like what he shared with her. It was irrational, and hardly warranted by the situation: Fran travelled with him, she willingly chose the life of a pirate, rather than the sedentary, contemplative existence they seemed to lead here. But he could not help it. He could not help noticing the white gleam of her teeth as she smiled to that—

("For all it matters, he might just be a walking mask. They all could be."

"This is unfair…Unfair and rather outrageously intolerant…")

But what else could he be, considering the circumstances? The white-hot, watery glint of the sun—(oh, my head)—the swirling dust, and Fran, talking and laughing, and perfectly composed, as if…

He paused.

(As if nothing had happened…)

He had asked for the princess' ring as payment for their services before they left Rabanastre. Right in front of her eyes. She had not budged. He could be wrong, but he didn't even notice the customary twitch in her right ear that time. That's when he'd had to admit to himself that he'd been looking for it, deliberately trying to draw it out, draw _some_ kind of reaction from her. Some retribution for not turning around that night.

The word made him pause again.

(Retribution? For what? My own foolishness? This is Fran, how did I assume she would respond? Especially after the episode with the girl…

No, I might not be as perceptive as she is, but I do know I read her right that night.

But even if I did, what was I expecting?)

He rummaged around in his pockets, in his money pouch, to finally find the ring at the bottom of his medicine bag. Careless. Even though he didn't need it, he was still planning to return it, not lose it…Well, if truth be told, there was another reason he took it. It would make his point perfectly.

("Teach that upstart princess of ours a lesson. She really needs to take it down a notch, doesn't she?"

"Yes, but what lesson?"

"That she's attracted to you, of course."

"And what of it?"

"Show her she's not in control; that's how the proud ones always work."

"That's not how Fran works."

"Oh, would you stop with that? Which one is the easier catch, tell me?")

His eyes drifted to where Ashe stood next to Vaan and Penelo, who were gawking like fishes out of water. She was observing Fran, waiting for a sign to go on, sometimes stealing a curious, half-unwilling, glance out of the corner of her eye at a passing garif. Trying to retain imperturbable decorum, when her natural reactions might perhaps have been very similar to those of the two children. A few steps away from her, Basch stood his silent guard.

(She _would _be the easier catch…But that's just where the problem lies…)

She was wilful and fiery, determined and impatient, a beautiful, blue-eyed, proud girl, with curves that wouldn't have looked out of place on a street dancer—(how does royalty even _get _hips like those?)—, who didn't quite know what to do with her anger. She should have been intriguing and piquant: that veneer of restraint just barely glossing over the underlying petulance. It should have been a delight to anticipate what would happen once that superficial barrier was forced…

(It's obvious the little spitfire's just waiting to break through, and all that regal coldness be damned. You can tell this one has feelings. Unlike others…)

Yes, the excitement of the new conquest should have been there…if only it hadn't been so easy. So easy to read her, so easy to see the building confusion in her eyes. It might just have been the blasé, spoiled ego of the connoisseur speaking, but it wasn't enough. Of course, he had to admit that it was flattering, as always, and…

The quiet, airy sound of Fran's laughter wafted up into the air, spiralling the dust up into its nameless pattern. He caught himself frowning. The inside of his temples gave another painfully slow throb.

("You know, forget about it. No need to be difficult. Maybe she is worth my while. If only because of the stone."

"Ah, the stone_…_")

For one distinct instant, he felt cold. Numb even. Apart from the muffled hum of conversation over on his left, everything suddenly seemed preternaturally quiet.

("Yes, the stone_…_"

"This is preposterous. What could I possibly want with a weapon like that?"

"Oh, I think you know...What was it that he saw there? What did he learn? You want to find out, don't you?")

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Basch's suspicious, steely gaze on him. Definitely not the kind of attention he wanted to be drawing. He shook his head and blinked to try to give his irritated eyes some relief from the sun and the dust.

(Sooner we get out of here, the better…)

* * *

"And what is it you're after, Balthier? You're a welcome hand and a great aid, but why?"

He couldn't say that he was surprised. Basch was only putting his sidelong glances into words. Yet hearing it still came as a shock. Shock, and an acute feeling of guilt. As if he were a child caught with his hand in a jar of sweets.

A night's rest had done him good, but ever since he'd woken up, he'd been listening. Listening to his own thoughts, trying to pinpoint that jarring, discordant strain which disturbed him on the previous day. That...voice, he was almost tempted to say. A foreign voice among his thoughts. Foreign, and yet, he knew full well it came from within himself.

But this morning, there was no voice. Nothing but an ominous silence. As if something were purposefully hiding just out of reach.

There was ice in Basch's gaze, and his question wouldn't let itself go unanswered. He had a role to play: cocky disdain and nonchalance. There were also two very different co-actors. Dutiful suspicion, as played by Basch. And...

(Mocking curiosity...Friendly concern...Spurned love...Offended pride...)

He didn't know which role Fran was playing. In fact, he couldn't even see her; she was standing at a distance behind him, and he was only aware that she was attentive to his words, nothing more.

Yet he performed his part.

"Worried I'm out to steal the nethicite, eh?"

Detached and mildly amused. This was to both of them.

"Can't say I'm unaccustomed to people doubting my intentions."

He meant this to be general, but it came out as a direct jab at Fran. What he wouldn't have given to see whether she parried, evaded or took the steel.

"Nothing could be further from my mind."

Perhaps too emphatic a denial?

"Shall I swear by your sword or some such?"

Light, haughty mockery, specially tailored for Basch. The man considered him for an instant, and, out of the corner of his eye, Balthier saw that he was not entirely convinced. His words, however, were conciliatory.

"My apologies, but I needed to know where you stand. Her Majesty depends on you. And you seemed to have an interest in the stone."

(Oh, you can be sure Your Majesty depends on me. Perhaps a tad too much...I wonder what you would do if you knew...? But perhaps you already do.)

It was as if a part of himself were observing the scene from outside. The voice returned abruptly, at once his own and someone else's, and he felt that this was not what he meant to think, not what he meant to say. But at the same time, there didn't seem to be anything else he could have thought or said instead.

"I'm only here to see how the story unfolds."

He dismissed the discussion, both verbally and physically, by starting across the bridge back towards the plain.

"Any self-respecting leading man would do the same."

Footsteps behind him. Fran followed, silent. Basch's gaze did too. And there was no mistaking the momentary twist inside his chest, even if it only took up one spasmodic second.

Anger.


	10. Nightwatch

**A.N:** Keeping watch at night, after leaving Jahara, before entering Golmore Jungle. I always figured that Fran and Basch had a sort of tacit understanding between them. Because, all things considered, they have very similar dispositions and concerns.

And of course, this has nothing to do with the film by the same name.

* * *

**_Nightwatch_**

It was a new moon, but the sky above the plains was so perfectly clear that they wouldn't have needed a fire, if it weren't for general safety purposes. So many stars…Despite how much she loved the Strahl, she also appreciated the respite from its continuous drone and its metallic protection.

The air was warm, and barely a breath of wind stirred. Everything seemed peaceful, and the occasional snore from Vaan was the only foreign noise to disturb the otherwise organic night sounds of the plains.

And yet she was anxious. She had seen old Uball-Ka's confusion at being presented with the stone, and his genuine contrition at not being able to help. Surely he could see the princess' inner turmoil just as well as she could. They could all see it, and Supinelu was the first to remark to her that something troubled the hume child. She only nodded in return, and he knew that this was no ordinary matter.

(She wants that power so…Do they not see that it would lead to certain ruin?)

The two children were probably simply clueless. The boy-emperor seemed to be stubbornly refusing the possibility that the stone could have any kind of nefarious appeal, despite very likely being able to feel it himself. Basch saw, but he could not protect the princess from herself. Balthier…Balthier saw as well, but...

(Like father, like son.)

_"Your hume seems restless, Fran. Is something amiss?"_

Supinelu's choice of pronoun should probably have been pleasant to her, if it were not for the fact that Balthier really was restless. He knew what his father had become, his rational mind must have told him to beware. She also remembered warning him once. But he couldn't help the fascination, it seemed. Somewhere in his mind, she believed he recognized himself in the princess' wavering, and her decisions thus had a wider scope: if she embraced the stone…what would become of him then?

(Enough. There's no need to worry when we know so little. The Gran Kiltias may still be able to reason with her.)

She attributed the distance she put between herself and the princess wholly to the liability that the young woman presented. She was brash, furious, determined. Driven. All her energy and all her strength channelled into anger. Most viera saw humes like that, and she honestly couldn't blame them for being reluctant to interact with them based on this one presupposition only. It was more than enough for caution. But she had also noticed the princess' irritation regarding Balthier…And she knew perfectly well what it meant.

(She is strong and she is not used to things being out of her control. He is out of her control. So are her feelings. She blames herself, she blames him…And yet she cannot get him out of her thoughts.)

The princess would sometimes dart inquisitive looks at her, when she walked alongside Balthier, as if trying to ascertain the exact depth of their relationship. She would catch her light blue eyes, attentive to his movements whenever contact between them was involved. And she found herself wishing that what the princess saw could be conclusive. But there were only so many certainties she had left after that night, before the palace, before all this happened. They'd never spoken about it. And, more than anything, she was afraid that it had been just a whim. A momentary lapse. In all other respects, he was much the same with her as he had always been, attentive and playful. But that night had left a mark.

And once again, she reprimanded herself for not doing anything then.

(I could not know…)

Just then, a rustle of covers came from the direction of the fire, a welcome distraction from her troubled thoughts. She sat up and slung her quiver over her shoulder. According to the constellations, it was about two. She wondered if the captain had simply regained his military punctuality, or if he had somehow managed to retain a grasp on time in the depths of the Nalbina dungeons.

She watched as he sat, then stood up, grim and dutiful, gathering his sword and shield. He hovered silently over the princess for an instant, as if there were anything he could guard her from in her dreams. She smiled slightly into the gloom: he knew she could see him, and yet he trusted her silence. She was certain that this was the reason why he always volunteered for the next watch after hers.

They spoke little, and yet a tenacious thread of mutual respect had developed over time. She respected his pain and his quiet, unassuming, hopeless devotion to his princess. He respected her tact and her unswerving loyalty to her own reckless sky pirate.

They also both knew they had someone to save.

"Go get some rest," came in his deep, gruff voice.

She considered him for a moment as he stood waiting for her to relinquish her post. The ruthless slash above his left eye. The ghastly bruises she remembered seeing on his shoulders and back must have subsided by now, but some of the whip welts strayed down to his arms. Those were more difficult to ignore. So much pain, still so much pain. Silent. Stern. Careworn. And alone.

For a fleeting instant, she wondered if this was to be her fate as well. And the warm night air made her shiver.

He settled down against the tree she had been sitting under. She moved towards the firelight, back to her place at Balthier's side, when suddenly she stopped. An urge to feel that she _wasn't_ alone. Not right then. Not like that.

She looked back over her shoulder to where Basch's frame was silhouetted against the tree trunk.

"I pray that we do not watch in vain."

And there was something unexpectedly fragile in her voice.

A pause. She wondered if he had understood.

"I pray that you're right," he answered quietly.

And for what it was worth, at least, she knew another shared her fears. Somehow, it made it a little easier.

She lay down quietly in the dusky orange glow. Balthier slept soundly next to her, his breathing even and soft, one arm absently stretched out halfway in her direction. She observed him for a moment before letting herself drift off. Tomorrow, she would be going home. A home where she wasn't welcome. It was the quickest way to Bur-Omisace. She hoped that he would eventually understand why.


	11. Lost

**A.N: **This is set after the whole Eryut Village/Henne Mines episode. And probably features Fran at her most vulnerable. Not an actual game scene, but there are references to some.

* * *

**_Lost _**

She listened when they first entered the sanctuary of the jungle, walking deeper into the warm green gloom of the trees, where almost every path brought back a memory. She listened as they repelled the swarms of panthers and foul-smelling malboros, fiercer than she remembered them. She listened even when the luminous glyph barred their passage, and she knew that they were not welcome. The princess and the little fledgling emperor, the knight with bloodied hands and the outlaw of the skies, the two bewildered children. And her as well, the prodigal daughter. She had expected as much. She remembered how ominously silent the shadows of the trees were the day she left. She remembered that the Wood did not try to hold her back, and it had surprised her then. She'd been almost glad it was so easy. But she knew now that silence was always worse than angry words. And even if she was aware that she was a stranger in the eyes of her Mother, still she listened. She looked for the hidden path among the trees and wove the simple spell, tracing unseen prayers on the dark air. The Wood allowed her to pass. This was her first glimmer of hope.

Balthier was surprised that she had decided to return, and she had to tell him. She had to tell him of the darkness lurking behind his eyes.

_"You are ill at ease. The nethicite troubles you."_

It chilled her that he seemed startled. Did he not know? Two years was a consequent enough amount of time for a hume. Surely he was used to her being able to read him. Or perhaps this was something he didn't want her to find out. Something he was reluctant to admit, even to himself.

_"You've let your eyes betray your heart."_

Naturally, he shrugged it off. He never did like the idea of weakness.

Eryut. Exactly the same as she had left it fifty years ago. Time seemed frozen here, even more so now that she wasn't accustomed to it any longer. The reassuring smell of the air, the sunlight dancing on the paths and fanes, the all-enveloping hush…Everything so quiet and still. Her home…images of languid days spent by the village spring, hypnotic, mesmerizing and so calm…her home no longer. She watched them, the humes, walking warily towards the trees, yet completely blind to the hundreds of arrows levelled at them from behind the path screens and among the boughs. They would not shoot. They knew she was here. But they were ready for any eventuality. And she felt trapped between two realities, none of which she could fit into.

"_She is not here."_

The Wood spoke. Once.

She started at hearing the long-forgotten voice, a distant whisper on the air, somewhere just at the boundary of her conscious mind. The words were faint, faded, threadbare. But she hoped. Hoped that all was not lost. Those were the only words She would utter, the only words she would be able to hear, yet at that moment, she felt a surge of pride. Jote had said she would forget how to listen. And she thought she had. Yet right then, she believed she could face her sister and prove her wrong. Prove that viera could choose a life among the humes and still remain viera.

But she knew almost right away that she was mistaken.

_"The Wood tells us where she has gone. Or can you not hear Her?"_

Jote, regal and splendidly cold. Barely older, flawlessly beautiful, right up to the immaculate whiteness of her ears. Jote's voice; deceptively soft, yet mercilessly catching on her 'r's and revealing her true nature. Harsh. Unrelenting. She had always been. When she had taught her the Green Word. When she had first confronted her about her desire to leave. She was born to be their leader. Born to limit and to restrain, to keep bonds strong. Considering the situation, she could hardly be blamed for the lurking, razor-thin cruelty in her words.

Mjrn was too young, too impatient, too naïve…No good could have come of her wandering off as she did, alone into a magicite mine, considering how coveted the mineral had become. Mjrn was about the same age now as she had been when she left. But there was no Empire vying for world domination in her days. And Mjrn was not strong enough to resist them yet.

Little sister, small and fragile, stumbling blindly through the darkness…and then that voice, that apparition. An idol, a statue of Mist with glowing eyes. The entity had its own will, even if it was imprisoned within a manufacted stone.

_"Stay away, power-greedy hume!"_

She saw the princess start at those words. They had struck home. She wondered for a fraction of a moment, before the gigantic wyrm towered over them, if they had stirred something in Balthier's mind as well.

Little sister, exhausted and afraid. The stone, spent and powerless, slipping from her grasp and disintegrating with a small noise as she collapsed to her knees, into her arms. And she cradled her as she used to cradle her all those years ago, before the world had intruded between them.

Even with her short, childish bob of hair, even with her innocent round face, she was no child anymore. The humes had shown her just how cruel they could be, all at once, all in one shattering blow. And she was not sure where the bitterness in her chest came from. Was it because she resented the offense against Mjrn? Because she believed that this would dissuade her from ever trying to leave again? Because she didn't want her to leave? Because she regretted leaving herself?

_"You're as foolhardy as your sister."_

She heard the fondness in Balthier's voice and she welcomed the playful softness in his eyes. Talking to Mjrn, looking at herself. And if the regret was there, it dissipated temporarily, because instants like these made everything more bearable. They even quieted the insistent voice inside her head, warning her of the hold the stone was beginning to have upon him.

_"I am as them now, am I not?"_

She fought with the next best weapon at hand when they returned to the village. One family was denied to her, but she did not want to give up. Jote stood for everything she could never regain, but she had to show she had found something just as valuable. A new family that didn't care about her viera blood and accepted her as readily as if she had really been one of theirs. That was one thing the Wood could not tell her sister, and so she had no reason to contradict her.

Except of course, that was far from being the truth.

It was difficult to call their little ragtag group a proper team, much less a family. Vaan, with his latest silly escapade, proved once again that he had only bewilderment to offer her. Kind, bland little Penelo showed concern, but then she did so with everyone. The princess—for some reason, her name never came naturally to her mind or her lips—displayed, at best, wary curiosity. Basch considered her as an equal and a worthy ally, but, as almost everything about the man, it went silent and aloof. The only one who accepted her willingly and gladly, with respect, admiration, trust and…whatever else might have been, was Balthier.

She was not a hume. She could never be one. But neither was she fully a viera anymore.

"_The Wood longs for you,__ for the child gone from under Her boughs."_

Jote, smooth and solid as marble, yet if you looked closer, there were some cracks in the uniform surface. The words were reflections of her own feelings, as hard as she was trying to suppress them. But the Wood...the Wood did not understand. If She had, surely she would have heard Her voice instead of Jote's veiled regrets.

"_Viera who have abandoned__ the Wood are viera no longer."_

Who knew how sincerely Jote believed that? Who knew that she didn't secretly envy her, somewhere very deep down inside? Yet even if her sister harboured second thoughts, it did not change the fact that she had lost something. She was maimed. Crippled. Incomplete. And afraid. Afraid that the kindred spirit she had found might falter. And despite the trust she bore him, there was an irrational, dark little thing lurking in a corner of her mind, insidiously muttering that something—or someone—might eventually turn him away from her, just as the stone was threatening to do now.

_"This…solitude you want, Mjrn?"_

The words spoke of the solitude of losing her past. But what she really meant was the solitude of helplessness at watching someone precious slip away.

The Wood was dark, silent and still around her, an empty shell of trees that refused her its meaning. And she never knew she could yearn for it so much: the simple, steady certainty of rules. She wandered off from where they had stopped for the night, her mind restless and heavy, not listening any longer, because she knew she couldn't hear. She strayed far under the trees, little caring where the paths took her. She knew them well enough to find her way back, ironic as it was.

_"Uhh…how old were you again?"_

(Too old for your world already, child, and yet…Fifty years, fifty years of wandering the length and breadth of it, trying to understand what it was about your kind that made you so fascinating to me. Fifty years to no avail, it seems. I find myself here again, regretting my recklessness. What was it all worth? I strove to be free, and now…Now I only wish for something to remain. The Wood used to hold me fast, every branch and every creeper, as moss clings to a rock. And I resented those bonds. Now the hume world rushes past me like a river, while I desperately want it to leave a mark. Now I am free. And I am alone.)

The undergrowth rustled behind her, and she turned, one hand on her bow.

"I know you've taught me how to follow a track, but you could slip through the most tangled thicket and leave it untouched. I do beg you to consider my lowly hume capacities, my lady ranger," came in a grumble, as a somewhat bedraggled figure pushed through the vines and out into the clearing.

She wished she could tell him just how painfully sweet it was to hear his voice right then. How worried it made her, day by day, to hear the keen, impatient note growing in it. How afraid she was that, one morning, he would come up to her with a preoccupied look on his face and say 'I'm sorry Fran, this is as far as we go'.

"Fran? What is it?"

She wanted to shake her head, wanted to smile, to try to say something, but she could not move. All she could do was keep faded, inscrutable eyes on his face. Where were the words? Everything inside her felt numb and remote.

(Don't leave.)

"Is this about Mjrn?"

She was silent.

"You know you were right in telling her to stay. It's not safe for her right now."

His tone seemed gentle and preoccupied. Yet still, nothing came from her. He took a step closer.

(Don't go.)

"Is it what Jote said?"

The same dull, mute pain greeted his question.

"You've had the courage to do what neither of them could. Surely, you can't doubt that?"

(Please.)

Somewhere in her head, she wished she could have cried, but even the tears wouldn't come. He observed her, holding her extinguished irises in his own.

"It can't still be Vaan's stupid comment, can it? No one would dream of calling you old, Fran. Not anyone who had full use of their eyes at least. And that boy wouldn't know propriety if someone rubbed it into his face anyway."

(Age. Time. It's what keeps me from you. I don't want to hear it.)

"Fran, what's wrong? Tell me."

Something flashed briefly in the depths of his pupils at those last two words, something that seemed almost reproachful, but she could not know what echoed in his mind at that instant. He took another step, reaching out a hand for her shoulder.

"Tell me," he repeated more quietly, only centimetres away, as if suddenly acutely conscious of their closeness.

Something gave out inside her, and she let herself move. Her hands met at his back, holding on more tightly than she could have expected, her face found his shoulder.

"Hold me, Balthier," she whispered faintly and wearily against his collarbone.

(You are my home, the only home I have left.)

The gesture took him by surprise, she could feel the slight pause and tension in his limbs. But then his arms closed around her, cautious and reassuring. At least, she wanted them to be. Nothing was actually amiss, except for that vague, but insistent impression that his patience was wearing thin. As if some tenuous thread were stretched taut between them, about to snap. She almost fancied him repressing a small exasperated sigh, and it chilled her.

(All those years…This long string of years to come...You don't have the time, you have not been given the time. And I would find the patience, find the strength to bear them somehow, because I don't have a choice. Time will take you from me, in the end. I thought it was the only thing that could, and I knew, I knew I had to learn to deal with it. Just stay until then. Give me as long as you can give. I belong with you now.)

She clung to him, the omnipresent plea inside her head, yet already knowing perfectly well that she would never be able to bear the shame of holding him against his will. She only hoped she would never have to make that decision.


	12. Castles in the Sand

**A.N:** How to take a scene, stand it on its head and make it play the banjo. This is the Phon Coast conversation...but probably not as you remember it. Due to the similarity in content, the title mirrors that of Chapter 9.

This was probably the hardest chapter for me to write. Basically, I've always wondered why it was that Balthier was so cruel to Ashe in the game. He's not a bad guy--even if immature at times--and he _must_ see that he troubles her. Yet he takes a very long time to definitely show that he's not interested in _that_ way. When you factor the nethicite in though, it suddenly makes sense. Even though punishing someone for your own weakness is not exactly fair game.

* * *

**_Castles in the Sand_**

He remembers. A summer day at the seaside. He couldn't pinpoint now when it occurred, but he must have been very young, because his mother was still alive. He sees himself in front of the sand castle he has just built. And his mother is smiling at him, her pale skin bright in the sunlight. This is the only thing he remembers about her. Not the colour of her hair, of her eyes, nor the way her face looked. Just the whiteness of her skin under the sun.

The next day, all that remains of the castle is a small mound of damp sand. All that the tide has left behind.

The problem with sand is that it crumbles so easily.

His heels sink with every step, and he's half-tempted to throw his shoes off and run. Run towards the water, just like Vaan and Penelo, or run along the strand, as long as it's running. A part of him always wants to run these days, more so than usual. Another part...another part lurks in shadow and whispers.

The princess' hair is the colour of sand in the rain. The same light, ashen hue. He realizes that this must have been the reason behind her name.

All of her castles are also sand. Her kingdom has run through her fingers under Vayne's tidal ambition. Her marriage was a political ploy, and disintegrated almost as soon as the tottering hands of both royal families stood it on its feet. Her dreams of power now depend on a force as fickle as a dune under the wind.

(The stone...)

A shudder runs around the inside of his chest, and he tries to smother it as best he can.

Ashe walks slowly, putting her feet down flat upon the sand to keep her balance. The movement is deliberate, yet she is clearly preoccupied with something else. He wonders if she can hear the whispers as well. Surely the stone calls out to her as it does to him. As it does to the Solidor brethren. As it did to his father.

Her thoughts take their toll. One heedless step, and her heel sinks into the sand, making her trip. His hand is swift to catch hers. He needs to know, whatever the cost, although he already sees, from her confusion, from the way she lowers her gaze and walks on—she could be a girl of fourteen—, that it will be high.

"Why the capital?"

It's only after he asks that he realizes the aberration: he's the one who suggested Archades as their next destination, after the attack on Bur-Omisace. Perhaps he wants to persuade himself that the decision was partly hers as well. She pauses. Considers.

"The nethicite. I must destroy it."

Her tone is grim.

"Are you sure? You don't want it for yourself?"

He is pitiless. He sees it from the start she gives: the question has struck home. Surely it is cruel, to probe at weaknesses like this, but she doesn't know that he's also simultaneously asking himself the same question, in an odd dichotomy between examiner and victim.

She stands very still, her eyes to the ground and her head to the side, listening attentively. The move is his, she wants to know how he will end it. A part of him registers how odd it is that, vulnerable as she is to him—and that would be plainly obvious to anyone—she still manages to strategize a conversation.

(The wonders of royal education...)

"Use its power to restore Dalmasca—something like that?"

There is poison in his voice.

"The best intentions invite the worst kind of trouble."

This is true, but the sheer hypocrisy should make him wince. He is certainly not in a position to be giving lessons.

"Lusting for ever greater power, blinded by the nethicite."

Oddly enough, she sounds puzzled: her own words seem to come as a surprise, despite how obvious it is.

"Is that how you see me?"

Slowly, she turns around. Her face is pale, and there is a tinge of disappointment in her eyes. As if she were expecting something from him. Expecting him to pay enough attention to understand her. Her nets are so crudely woven and spread that he could almost feel insulted.

(I don't see you as anything, darling. And you certainly can't make me.)

He can almost _hear_ the snarl inside his head. This is his usual way of bucking at restraints, yet the voice that utters the words sounds so disturbingly fiendish, revelling in the aggression. The other part of him is horrified. Yet he maintains perfect outward composure, as he moves past her.

"That does sound like someone I know."

This is equivalent to a desperate lunge in his mind. He is throwing her the stick to beat him with, so to speak. The very same one he gave to Fran. Except that Fran never used it. She took the information and shelved it away somewhere inside the convolutions of her thoughts. A maze that he has been shut out of, no matter how hard he has tried to map it. Fran, who is now standing at Basch's side, a little further down the shoreline, calmly pointing something out to him, as Vaan and Penelo root around for seashells. And he yearns for her to look this way, or to hear him, even though he knows they are well out of earshot. Almost like a vindictive child—(see? I'm confiding in her, just as I would confide in you)—craving attention.

Because, no matter what the reason, that is exactly what he is doing. Toying with the one, taunting the other, but all he wants is for the insidious hissing to stop. He knows what—or, more precisely, who—this is turning him into.

"He was obsessed with nethicite. It was all he cared about. He'd babble nonsense, blind to aught but the stone's power. He'd talk about some 'Eynah'...or was it 'Venat'? No matter. Everything he did, he did to get closer to the nethicite, to understand it. He made airships, weapons…He even made me a Judge."

The words are tumbling out of his mouth with little rhyme or reason, and he walks, almost mechanically, to prompt them on. It's a cathartic, seemingly sloppy, but oh-so-insidious move. Confidence is a deadly trap, even if he has to force it out, to override compunction.

"You were a…a Judge!?"

She sounds shocked, and rightly so. It feels more natural than Fran's quiet surprise at learning the same news. Paradoxically, however, it also feels much coarser.

"Part of a past I'd rather forget. It didn't last long. I ran. I left the Judges…and him. Cidolfus Demen Bunansa."

And every word is a notch in his chest. How long has he not heard or pronounced this name with its full honorifics? It feels like conjuring a ghoul.

"Draklor Laboratory's very own Doctor Cid."

As if that could somehow make the name easier on his tongue.

"That's when he lost his heart to nethicite, lost himself. And I suppose that's when I lost my father."

He stops as he reaches the water, pausing to let her take in the revelation. She is silent, standing behind him with her gaze pinned to his back, as he looks into the distance. At least, that's how it would appear to her, from her vantage point. She can't possibly tell that his eyes are fixed on Fran.

("Listen, listen to what I'm telling her. Look how she takes the bait and swallows the hook. This should be you, you should be the one to..."

"...save me...")

Yet, at the same time, he knows Ashe is the only person he can speak to about this. The stone doesn't whisper to Fran. It doesn't whisper to anyone else in the group but the two of them. Ashe knows; he persuades himself that, on some level, she understands why he is telling her this.

(This is my sand castle. And I need it brought down.)

He turns to her for a moment.

"Don't follow in his footsteps."

But the strain in her eyes is more than he can bear. His gaze travels back to Fran, latches on and burrows in, as a wounded animal returns to its den.

"I ran away. I couldn't stand seeing him like that, a slave to the stone. So I ran. Free at last."

Only he isn't. He just wishes he could be.

"Funny I went for the Dusk Shard. How could I have known that it was nethicite? And then, of course, I met you. All that running, and I got nowhere."

Perhaps this is another reason why he is so merciless with her. Because, by demanding attention the way she does, she is twisting his head around and forcing him to look back on everything he has left behind. And he doesn't know if he's strong enough to withstand the pull of these strings that bind him.

"It's time to end this—cut my ties to the past."

(And you will go with them.)

But if she decides she wants revenge after all...If she cannot resist, with all the responsibility she bears, then why should he?

Again, she is silent for a few moments. Then he hears her move up, until she is standing next to him, and there is an instinctive recoil in his muscles. She holds up her left hand, pensively contemplating her wedding-band.

"It's hard to leave the past behind. I know," she finally says.

Her voice trails off. But he has no way of seeing what this evokes in her head. No way to picture Rasler's face as she remembers it, no way to hear the reminder that, to him, there was little more between them than political convenience. He cannot see this, cannot fathom how deeply this cuts her. Not when all he wants is to be set free.

Finding her silent again, he turns to her.

"The choice is yours to make. But don't give your heart to a stone. You're too strong for that, Princess."

There is flattery and double meaning in the words. And it disgusts him, but this is the only way of escape he has found thus far. The choice is, indeed, hers. It will influence his as well. But once again, he can't quite face the yearning in her eyes as she glances at him. Thankfully, she averts her gaze. He seizes the opportunity, and starts walking towards the others.

"I…I pray you're right, Balthier," she concludes in an undertone.

A light waft of wind wraps the words around her. He is already out of earshot.


	13. Degrees of Separation

**A.N:** This scene occurs on entering Giruvegan. And I promise that I'll stop torturing Fran soon...ish. It's mostly uphill after this.

Thank you to those who are still reading and/or reviewing the story ^^

* * *

**_Degrees of S__eparation _**

Ruins. Austere, straight avenues and cold, broken archways laced with crystal overhanging the frozen waters. And Mist. A thick, iridescent fog with a chill, mineral smell. There was a tremor inside her when she first saw just how much of it there was, but it soon subsided. This Mist was cold with the weight of ages. Nothing quickened it, save the heartless condensed destruction of Entites. But there was a power in this place. A distant, dormant, malevolent aura, signalling the presence of an Esper. Maybe two. And then, there was something else. Something which struck dread into her heart. Something much like the Mist-idol which possessed Mjrn in the Henne mines…Venat.

"What is it, Fran?"

She had involuntarily pressed a hand to her chest, as if it would help alleviate the leaden heaviness of the air. Little Penelo was looking up at her, concern in her light blue eyes. It seemed as if she was the only one to notice anything about her these days. Or at least, the only one who took the time to ask. The princess was driven, even more so than usual. Basch was anxiously watching her back, trying to restrain her eagerness as best he could. Vaan could have been on a picnic trip, and it wouldn't have made a difference. And Balthier, he…

_"We should lie low for now."_

_"No, we'll use their confusion. We need to find Cid. Now."_

Of course, they had disagreed before. Of course, she didn't believe that she was always right and always knew best. But this was the first time he had disagreed with her openly. In front of the others. In itself, it was probably a foolish thing to pick up on. They were in a hurry, and he _was_ right. But the distance between them had widened, hadn't stopped widening since Jahara…since the Leviathan…since that night before all this started, really. She found herself strangely silent in their moments together, tense and uncomfortable, far worse than anything she had ever experienced with him. He could sense it, this was blatant even to hume perception, yet he did not address the issue.

She also found herself looking at his back more often now, as he walked at the front of their party, alongside the princess, and she was left hanging back with Basch, watching them, watching over them, and helplessly witnessing as they drew closer and closer to dangerous decision-ground. Ostensibly, the decision only concerned the princess, but they both knew better. Dr Bunansa was involved, that in itself was enough. And…but she had to forcibly stop her thoughts whenever they reached this particular point. She didn't want to read anything else into Balthier's change of behaviour. She dreaded to formulate the thought coherently, but it belied itself plainly enough in her coldness towards the princess, in the apologetic side-glances she sometimes caught from Basch. He couldn't help it, of course, but sometimes she felt an absolutely irrational urge to tell him to do something, to not let this degenerate into…She stopped herself again.

Last night, Basch came to relieve her from her watch, as usual. He didn't say anything, just silently placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. It was all he could do. She knew his disposition well enough to understand that this was not just shallow compassion. But he was as helpless as she was.

And now, once again, she stood watching Balthier's back, as he surveyed the ruins from the top of the steps that descended to the wide avenue stretching out into the Mist before them. Watching his back, absently studying the lacing of his vest, and feeling cold. She could blame it on the raging snowstorm outside. She could blame it on the Mist. The real cause, however, had nothing to do with physical manifestations.

(If this is your choice, I will abide by it. I still have dignity enough to let you follow your own path without hindrance. I cannot let you destroy yourself or anyone else, but beyond that, everything else is for you to decide. A sky pirate's privilege. No obligations. No possessions. And you must never know…how much it hurts to do this.)

Once this was all over, she would have to find herself a new occupation. Perhaps she could…but at this point, something clutched at her throat, and such an overwhelming torrent of loneliness cascaded down inside her that her hand involuntarily tightened into a fist on her chest.

"The Mist runs thick here," she remarked slowly; this seemed to allow her somewhat better control over her voice.

Apparently, the comment finally got through to Vaan.

"Like on the Leviathan?"

A small, bitter smirk found its way to her lips. Of course. If the boy had ever viewed her as something more than just a higher grade of animal, it had all been overwritten by her outbreak that day.

"Do not worry. I will behave myself. The Mist here is…cooled."

Cooled, but still ominous. This much Mist never boded anything good. For all it was worth, they did need to be warned about the lurking threat in this place.

"I sense something like the shadow here."

"Venat."

Balthier reacted to her words. She never thought she could actually feel happy for this much acknowledgement, and something strongly akin to disgust tasted bitterly on her tongue. Disgust at herself, at him, at the princess, at all of them, at this place, at Cid, at Venat, at Vayne Solidor, at the Empire…at this madness threatening to engulf the world. He reacted, he turned, but he didn't look at her. This—whatever this was—was more important. Coming to terms with his father was probably a large part of it, and she had always felt that someday, he would have to. But she never imagined it would happen like this: her standing behind him and unable to reach out and help. Worst of all…that her help might not be needed.

The memory of a dream came unbidden at that point. A dream she'd had the night they arrived in Balfonheim. There was light, a flood of green light, and she knew she must be back in the Wood. In front of her, in a small glade, the light danced and called out. Her sisters were gathering from all sides, gracefully, obediently, listening to Her voice. And try as she may, she knew the way was shut. As soon as she took a step forward, tree roots and brambles she had not noticed before suddenly sprung up. It was as if they congregated in front of her feet to prevent her from reaching the glade. And she saw Jote's proud silhouette. She saw Mjrn too, with her childish bob of hair, glancing back over her shoulder. There was sadness in her eyes. Sadness and resignation.

This was not her path anymore.

Laughter. Right behind her. She knew that voice as well as she used to know the Wood's. She had forsaken everything and followed it.

She turned around. He was there, standing on the narrow trail behind her. But his was not a kind laughter. It wasn't reassuring or warm this time. The smooth golden-brown irises had an eerily cold gleam to them. He was laughing. At her.

And then she saw it. A white shadow fleeting through the trees. It emerged from the Wood. It laughed too, took him by the hand, and led him away. Without a glance back. Not a shadow anymore, but the all too familiar sandy-haired princess.

She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't listen. She struggled, but it was as if boulders were fettered to her ankles. With a tremendous effort, she managed to wrench her feet from the ground, but to no avail. The two figures grew smaller in the distance, and the path seemed to stretch out before her, taunting and mocking her desperate attempts. She wanted to cry, she wanted to call out, but her voice wouldn't obey. And all she could do was watch them disappear, as the trees started to bear down upon her.

The dream was too close to reality for comfort.


	14. Release

**A.N:** This is the scene at the top of the Pharos, after the battle with Cid. Balthier finally finds an answer.

* * *

**_Release_**

(Father…)

The word sounds strange and foreign in his head.

(When did you die?)

The man he sees now, painfully pushing himself up from the floor—so imbued with nethicite that he cannot even bleed—as he begins to vanish into the heavy iridescence surrounding them, died a long time ago. Death is only claiming its due. Still…

(Almost six years…Six years of running away from you, frantically trying to escape the madness you've left in my blood. Yes, this is madness. A more rational, more terrifying madness than anything I've ever known, but it cannot be anything else…)

Instinctively, he rushes up to him. To help? To finish off? He doesn't really know, but he obeys the impulse, however empty it may be.

(Father…I…

I don't feel anything. At least, not anything I should. Not pain, not pity…Just dread… Yes, that's the word. Dread. That you could consciously choose this path. That you could let these stones possess you and consume you so completely. And I don't know…I don't know what I would've done in your place. I ran because I didn't want to know the answer.)

The dark Mist-shadow rises up menacingly between him and the grovelling figure at his feet. A cold aura seeps from it; it's particularly obvious with the ambient heat of the swirling Mist. It's lifeless, yet pulses with a frozen semblance of life. It can't breathe, it can't feel, yet it's conscious. And malevolent.

He glowers at it, but halts, uncertain.

"Let him by…Venat…It is done."

Cid's voice is laboured and faint with the effort of standing up. Yet even now, even in his last moments, he does not realize that the source of all this pain is this very shadow he mistakes for his truest companion.

"Ah...how I have enjoyed these six years."

His voice is wistful.

"The pleasure was all mine," comes in unnatural, distorted strains from the creature.

It moves out of sight, it disappears, perhaps; he is not certain, because all he can focus on is the wreck of a man in front of him.

"Was there no other way?"

(Would you still be my father if this…thing hadn't taken over you then? Would you still be a man and not a walking obsession? Would you be shedding blood like any living creature instead of…disintegrating like this?)

"Spend your pity elsewhere…"

Cid's voice is now little more than a whisper amid the loud hum of the Mist.

"If you are so set on running…hadn't you best be off? Fool of a pirate…"

He thins out and fades away, and the strain of Mist that forms after he is gone is immediately absorbed by the pulsating cryst. Almost like a ghost, or an optical illusion, shreds of lingering feeling in his vanishing voice. And then, there is nothing but swirling oil-stains, and the conspicuousness of an empty space where the semblance of a body stood just instants ago.

And somewhere deep under the confusion and the horror, he knows that he is only free now. There can be no more questions. Simply because there won't be anyone to give answers on this subject ever again.

A faint thud reaches his ears, the sound of a falling body. Then a piping little voice, miles away, somewhere beyond the ocean of Mist that has swallowed his father.

"Fran?"

He has to focus and remember. Placid red eyes. Queenly dignity. Her presence—(my Fran)—reassuring and steady, always about and around him.

He doesn't react to the spontaneous possessive his mind supplies, even though such a choice of words should make him kick and run.

(Fran…What's wrong with Fran?)

The air around him is uncomfortably warm, even for his hume senses. So how much worse it must be…

(The Mist…She can't bear the Mist…Why...

Why have I brought her here? Why did she follow me? Why did she not say anything?

Because she knew. She knew that even if she did, I would still need to see it for myself.)

She has fallen to her side, somewhat reminiscent of a wounded bird, limbs awkwardly splayed out like broken wings, shivering slightly under the contact of the searing, stifling Mist. Penelo is helplessly crouching next to her. And he asks himself when it stopped being him there, at her side. When he gave up considering what his closest companion thought and felt for the sake of incoherent, desperate questions about some stone and his madman of a father. He doesn't know, and he feels that he has woken up from a nightmare to find her gone.

_"This is as much for you as it is me."_

That was a lie. None of it had been about her. Even returning to the Wood; the only reason she ever resolved upon it was because _they_ needed to go to Bur-Omisace, because _he_ needed to unravel that particular skein. She would most likely never have set foot in Eryut again, had it been entirely up to her—(for me, you did it for me)—and perhaps it would have been for the best. He remembers the loss in her eyes the night after they left the village, he remembers how she clung to him without a word. Only, now he knows why.

He would move faster, and perhaps it's the Mist, perhaps exhaustion, or something else entirely, but he feels stunned. He meets her painful red irises, and as his arm moves in gently to support her off the floor, something inside his chest contracts with a spasm.

She never blamed him for that night. She never blamed him at all. All she ever did was attempt to understand and to help him. The bonds he wanted cut, he has cut himself. She only made sure he had a chance to. Not Ashe, despite the role he has desperately tried to pin on her to justify his masquerade. And he sees the consequences now.

"The Sun Cryst bursts. You must run…as far as you can."

Her voice is urgent and strained, struggling out of breathless lungs choking on scalding Mist. He picks up on the 'you'. Not 'we', not the 'we' she spoke under the moonlight over a year ago, the 'we' they've been revolving around ever since. 'You' doesn't refer to the others either. Just him. She wants him safe. She wants him happy. And she doesn't think any of that includes her any longer.

He would apologize if he only knew how. Instead, all he can find to say is:

"Easy, Fran…"

And there is a bruised tenderness in his eyes.

A few days earlier…perhaps even as recently as yesterday—as an hour ago—an angry voice inside his head would have objected to the fact that she was making him feel guilty again. Right now, however, all he can see is her faint, resigned smile that reminds him of a dying butterfly.

"Hadn't you best be off?"

She repeats his father's words almost unwittingly, and it sends a cold thrill down his spine.

"That's what a sky pirate does: you fly…don't you?"

He feels the feverish warmth of her palm against his cheek, the pink blades of her nails lightly resting on his skin. And this should not surprise him: hasn't he always guessed? Perhaps what unsettles him the most, however, is the fact that she displays it so openly now. As if there was no more need for concealment, no more hope…

(I'm not going anywhere, Fran. Not without you.)

His own hand finds hers, giving it a light squeeze.

"I suppose you better hang on then."

He forces a smirk, a perfect mirror of his usual self. She blinks once, slowly, with excruciatingly disbelieving gratitude.

(I won't leave you.)


	15. Before the Dawn

**A.N:** This is set the night before the assault on the Bahamut. The best possible decision is one that you won't regret.

* * *

**_Before the D__awn _**

He glances mechanically at the small antique clock on the nightstand. The moonlight states that it is around one. Which means that he has been sitting motionless on the edge of his bed for about an hour now, ever since they all retired for the night. He registers it as a fact, little more. At this point, he would be unable to tell if it has been long or not.

_"Fool of a pirate…"_

He cringes. Perhaps this was to be expected. Even despite all that's happened, the man was still his father. And…

_The bullet buried itself into Cid's shoulder with a soft "thwack". He imagined the noise more than he heard it; Vaan's angry exclamations, the blast of Cid's gun, the watery notes of Penelo's healing magic from somewhere on the side, everything else drowned it out. And where he expected blood, a slow trickle of Mist…_

He digs the bottom of his palms into his eye sockets, as if it could make the images disappear. To no avail, of course, all it does is pepper the scene playing behind his eyelids with black spots. It doesn't help, but sitting here without doing anything is equally intolerable.

_"Spend your pity elsewhere."_

(Believe me, I gladly would.)

It's difficult to say what he feels—if he feels—difficult to say whether this isn't just him trying to enact what would be appropriate in this situation. He looks at his hands. The same hands that held the gun. The same finger that pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Again and again.

_"If you are so set on running, hadn't you best be off?"_

(Run…where? I told myself I'd face my past once and for all…And that's just what I've done…)

The door hisses quietly open, and the faint patter of claws on the floor makes him look up. Fran has come in, the long white waves of her hair distinct in the darkness. He's not quite sure if he's ever been this grateful for a viera's perceptiveness.

She steps into the patch of moonlight in front of him and crouches by his feet, silver and silent. He lets his gaze draw the shape of her face then come to rest on her eyes. They are calm, concerned and soothing, and yet he knows how much effort that placidity requires. Perhaps this is what makes it so meaningful. But whatever the reason, she has never been more precious to him than she is now. Because she's known, she's known all along what he was running from. Or rather, towards. She's known all along and she's fought for him. He's tempted to add 'for them', but 'them' is such a complex tangle…

"Are you alright?" he asks.

A faint smile appears on her face.

"I am fine, thank you."

Her expression adds: "but you are not".

He knows she should be the one asking the question right now. But the Pharos haunts him: the clamour of the Mist, bleeding and swirling around them, the pain in Fran's eyes, the weight of her body in his arms, the iridescent fog swallowing, eating away at the contours of Cid's frame…

"I've killed him, Fran," he whispers almost involuntarily.

It's an explanation, a justification, a statement, or all of the above; for some reason, he needs to point out the stark truth. Perhaps to make her realize what kind of man he is.

(But what kind _is_ that?)

He could hardly say what he's capable of after what happened.

(No better than him. Just as ruthless. Just as willing to sacrifice anything to obtain the answers I want.)

He is both surprised and relieved to feel her fingers sliding around his wrists and up to envelop his hands, pulling them slightly downwards, away from his face.

"You did not. He chose his own fate when he relinquished his mind to the stone. It couldn't be helped."

This only addresses part of his concerns, but it's a start. He lets the words sink down, absorbs them as if through his skin. And for a moment, he could almost forget that, if he looked through the window, he would see the Bahamut hovering on the skyline, with its deadly garland of smaller attendant airships. Almost forget that they don't know what their adversary is capable of. Forget that his father has disappeared into a cloud of Mist, as much of a phantom as that Occurian abomination. Forget that, only hours ago, Fran was closer to giving up than she's ever been in all the time he has known her. Forget that it was his fault...

He opens his palms to let her dark, wiry fingers in, like a wave into a hollow, holding her hands with his own now.

"I'm sorry…"

(…for putting you through this, for believing you heartless…for making you feel second best, for using Ashe to taunt you…for bringing you so close to the edge of this madness…)

His voice isn't as steady as he would like it to be. There is gratitude in her red irises, but there is also a trace of pain, which makes his heart contract. Reading a viera, as he has found, is all about meandering in shades of grey. But this particular shade is there because of him. And yet:

"You don't need to apologize," she says, with a light twist of the head, "we are here now, it's all that matters."

Here. Now. Two years of 'here and now', two years of her and him. He notices that 'we' is back as well. And yet he's not quite sure what either 'here and now', or 'we' mean. To him, they are one thing. To her…He has never been certain of what she wanted. And she has never come to him quite like this before.

They've never been this close to death before either.

Something dawns on him at this point. Something he used to notice at first, but which has become so irrelevant—or is it customary?—that he has failed to make a connection.

If they both die tomorrow…that's just the word. _Both_. If not…

A viera and a hume. Two hundred years of difference.

His eyebrows gather as the thought spins out inside his head. A drop and a ripple on the surface of an ocean. When he was making the comparison back then, he forgot to include himself into it. The inevitable conceit of being eternal. Only eternity has much more meaning for her than it does for him.

(Is that why…? When you look at me…do you see a dead man or a child?)

He searches her eyes, he remembers them as they were on the Pharos. It can't possibly be the latter. But then…

In some forty years, if he lives to see them—if no son of his comes to kill him—he will be an old man. An aging, greying, weakening man. And she…she will be just like Jote, perhaps. Flawless and beautiful. Then she will have to watch him die. And then…

Then she will have another century.

If she so fancied, she could survive another man. There is something ugly in the thought, but it could technically be true. A century. So much time to forget.

And yet, her expression says otherwise.

If she doesn't forget, a century could also be just as much pain. And how could he possibly wish that to her?

"Fran?" he hazards.

"Yes?"

He isn't quite sure how to phrase this.

"Are you afraid?"

Certainly not the most direct approach, but this is the question that first comes to him. She doesn't avert her gaze. Instead, she gives one slow nod.

"Vayne Solidor is a formidable adversary."

But there's something else in her eyes. He tries again.

"I'm not talking about Vayne."

And his hands tighten ever so slightly around hers.

Her eyebrows contract faintly, and that dying butterfly of a smile reappears on her face.

"I know."

He has no choice but to bow to this. Nothing he can say or do would change the fact that 'them', to her, is ultimately just another ripple on still water. Perhaps it wouldn't matter if either of them cared less. But he can't force that much regret upon her. His lips find her fingers. It's the only apology he can think of.

He feels her shift slightly, tilting to her knees to let her forehead rest against his. In the strange, lightest of motions, she nuzzles his head upwards, and it's her lips he meets next. He is aware of her taste, aware that he should probably reconsider, but also perfectly incapable to. Then follows an exquisite, hot, heady incoherence, which leaves him dazed and attempting to understand how it is that his hands are buried in the waves of moonlight that frame her face.

It shouldn't be this easy to trail fingers down the dusky slope of her shoulder and along her back, shouldn't be this easy to hold her and know exactly why he's holding her, for once. None of this should be easy—that night, before the palace, he couldn't even touch her—not considering everything that it entails.

The words are reluctant when they leave his mouth:

"Are you sure?" he asks quietly.

As an answer, one of her hands curves around the back of his head.

"It is my choice to make."

There's a rush inside his chest at the words—(dear gods, Fran)—then another kiss, desperate for a few more moments of oblivion. He holds her closer, he buries his face into the hollow of her neck. Her skin shivers slightly, almost like a hum, under his breath, under his lips, and there is so much promise in this, in the way their bodies respond to each other. She bends under his hands like a sapling, her fingers snake about his neck, his shoulders, his chest, nails whispering ever so slightly against bare skin. It's fascinating, tantalizing and somewhat horrifying at the same time, because he understands just how dearly bought this is for her, and that the promise, no matter how enticing, ends with him. Whenever that end might come. Right now, tomorrow seems to be a likely horizon, and there is nothing he can do about it, just hold on to her, hoping to melt the realization into her skin.

"Stay with me tonight?" he mutters.

He wouldn't blame her for seeing a child in him now, because he wants to hide, to forget, to blank the reality out of his thoughts. That permanent instinct of running, only he knows that there is nowhere he can run from this. She could provide a temporary, delicious escape, and some part of him wishes that she'd understand his question precisely in that way. But he doesn't want to prove a coward. Because even if he ever had the mind to try, he couldn't bring himself to run from her.

He feels her nod against his shoulder. Moments later, she stirs, gathers herself to her feet; and he can't help but relish the way the curve of her body sings under his palms as they slide along her waist, over her hips and onto her thighs, to let her straighten up. And he has to try to steady his pulse as best as possible, to attempt to silence the clamour of his senses, because he can almost feel the shadow of the Bahamut through the window, oppressive and inexorable. And he knows that he can't make it disappear.

She lies down next to him; for one moment, he thinks this won't be possible, because the moonlight silvers the contours of her body under the light fabric of her nightgown, and even _knowing_ that it's her weight pressing down into the mattress sends a rush through him. But her hand rests on his shoulder, and he lets the steady rhythm of her breathing cradle his own hand in the hollow of her waist. Her palm travels back to his face, one of her fingers curves down his cheek and along his jawline, the touch losing itself somewhere along the way to his chin. She lets another kiss linger, light and wistful, and somehow, he finds this one soothing, like drinking warm milk. Silent minutes dissolve around them; he's not sure how he can be this subdued, but perhaps she also has hypnotic powers. It would hardly surprise him at this stage. Or perhaps—(so tired)—the sheer physical exertion of the day has finally caught up with him. The faint circles his thumb has been drawing on her skin under the fabric have become sluggish.

"Sleep," she whispers.

And he obeys, he lets himself drift off. Yet before his consciousness fades out, he promises himself that there will be days after tomorrow, that there will be a next time. It makes the darkness easier to accept, as it closes in.

* * *

Somewhere in space, the cold rotundity of the moon reflects the light of the sun. Silently, the earth turns among the stars, and the silver radiance reaches down through the weight of the air to where tiny figures are scurrying about in almost senseless motions. Explosions no larger than pinheads, and a war is waged, and lives are lost, but to the moon, it's all one and the same. She doesn't care what her borrowed light illuminates, doesn't care that it reaches through the window of an airship to two figures lying next to each other on a bed. The night is silent. The morning will be filled with noise and blood. Yet now he is here, and she is here with him.

She wonders why Balthier was unable to detect the spell. She _was _careful about dosing her magic as best she could, but her control seemed so imperfect to herself. Perhaps she can write it down to cruder hume senses. Perhaps she underestimates her abilities. Perhaps he was more tired than either he or she expected.

She muses absently as she watches him sleep. Even though two years have changed him, hardened him and sketched two or three more faint lines on his forehead, he is still so young—the youngest of all those she's ever had—that she sometimes wonders why it is that he binds her so, and why she doesn't mind these particular bonds. Sleep makes him look fragile, brings out the paleness of his skin and the chiselled delicacy of his features. He should be anathema to her, her race, her blood, her thoughts. They differ in outlook; in tradition and culture, they are at odds; even their builds don't match: just looking at her larger hands, with their long, bony fingers and prominent claws is damning evidence enough. Yet she doesn't care.

Despite how helpless he looks now, he has also made many suffer. The latest example she has witnessed herself: she heard the princess' door open behind her as she made her way to his room. She knows how painful this must be for her...only because she has experienced it firsthand. And she will inevitably be forced to experience it again. Yet, she has made her choice.

She will give him all the time that can be theirs to share.

She would gladly give him more. Only a cruel whim of genetics won't allow it. It strikes her as strange that she has never considered giving anything less. And she's not quite sure how she will deal with his age, but she tells herself that the responsibility and the pain will be entirely hers in the end, even though she knows.

She knows it will hurt him to leave her. She knows it will hurt to see her still young and full of life when he will have so little to spare.

And yet, it is done. Constructed piece by piece out of doubt, hesitant touches, lingering glances, Ashe's sighs, Cid's vanishing regrets, Jote's warnings, Mist, anger, loss, sacrifice, but also freedom and trust. Newborn in pain and living to ward it off. The way of all life, beings and bonds between them alike.

Lightly, she lets her hand rest on his, perhaps half wishing that he would wake up. But the spell is potent, and he needs the respite. Besides, there is nothing else either of them can say, and she knows that mixing desire and fear makes for a bitter draught. The cold shadow of the Bahamut hovers behind the moonlight. She hides her thoughts in the silver glow, and closes her eyes. Tomorrow, life passes its verdict.


	16. After the Fire

**A.N:** Disclaimer: no characters were killed in the making of this chapter, which is set during the escape from the Bahamut. This, the previous and next chapters form a sort of sequence for Fran: sleep, 'nightmare' (even though the events of this chapter are real) and waking up.

* * *

**_After the F__ire_**

"Fran?"

The voice is Balthier's, even though it sounds somewhat distorted. Something hurts. She wouldn't be able to say what or where, or even what the pain is like, but it's nevertheless there.

(Why is it…so…dark?)

Her head is buzzing, and it's very difficult to concentrate on anything besides the diffuse sensation of pain. At first, she can't determine whether her eyes are closed or open, but gradually, she notices some sort of faint light, as of a dying lamp somewhere. Dull, blackened colours come back into view. Dirtied gold embroidery. That's Balthier's vest. Shreds of his shirt collar. His features return into focus next. The faint glint of his eyes in the gloom. His left cheek is black, whether with soot or with caked blood, she cannot tell.

She sighs, and her breath comes out in a whimper.

"Where does it hurt?"

Her entire left side, it would seem. There is a sharp stab in her chest when she attempts to breathe in too deeply, therefore—

"Ribs…broken…," she forces out.

Immediately, he loosens his hold and shifts his right arm lower to relieve the stress on her ribcage.

"My…head…ringing," she tries.

"Yes, the explosion probably didn't help with that…Hang on."

Strips of memory rise up to the surface of her mind, and she registers that they must still be on the Bahamut. He shifts his hand back up again, and a cure spell distinctly slithers its way under her skin to try to soothe the broken bones. It's not a very strong one, which signals her that his mana must be running low.

"You'll have to wait a bit for the next one, I'm afraid."

His voice is apologetic and slightly strained, as if he were in pain as well. Sure enough, she feels him wince distinctly as he attempts to settle her on the floor with her back to some object or other. He stifles a groan as he stands up, half-withdrawing into the darkness around them, tatters of leather gaping around the dim white patch of his right knee.

"What…is it?"

"Just my ankle, it seems. But not to worry."

He attempts to hobble about a few steps. Most likely to restore enough energy for another spell, but it seems ludicrous and unnecessarily painful.

"Stop."

She desperately tries to focus.

"Come…here."

He pauses for an instant, then complies, with a very noticeable limp.

"Your foot…," she gestures, concentrating as best she can on her mana.

Somewhat awkwardly, he leans into whatever's supporting her, so that his weight rests entirely on his good foot. She reaches out to wrap her hand lightly around his right ankle. If the swelling is anything to go by, it's a rather nasty sprain, and she manages the strongest spell she can. It feels like a gasp.

"Thank you," he says quietly, then resumes his pacing, noticeably easier. However, it's still painful to watch him.

"You don't…have to…," she starts.

"Nonsense," he interrupts, "of course I do. Stay still."

A few moments later, he returns to her. Kneeling back down with some difficulty, he adds with a smirk in his voice:

"After all, I have to prove myself in the supporting role before you allow me back into the lead, right?"

A smile greets his words, as she leans her cheek against his. Once again, his hand slides along her side, once again, relief worms its way around her bones. The pain dulls a bit, but, along with it, her grip on things does too.

(Tired…)

It's a little hard to believe that one spell could have cost her this much effort. But the darkness starts to blur, and Balthier's contours grow hazy again. The last thing she is conscious of is the buzzing inside her head.

"Fran?"


	17. Sunlight

**A.N:** This is the sister-piece to chapter 3 (Moonlight), as it's the third chapter from the end. It takes place after the escape from the Bahamut, and brings up the one problem left to resolve. It also features Balthier and 'war trophies' (tee hee!)

Yugelu was the garif Geomancer in the game. I figured this was the closest equivalent to a healer that we were given, so this is why his name is mentioned in this chapter.

* * *

**_Sunlight_**

The smell of dusty sunlight. Everything is still wrapped in numb darkness, but she can already perceive its tingling sensation. Moments later, she catches the faint scent of ambergris, and it makes the corners of her mouth tilt up in a barely perceptible smile, as she opens her eyes.

Wavelets dance above her, where the sun mirrors off a body of water and sends luminous snaky patterns to any surface that will receive them. In this case, the roof of a hut. Even half-awake, she can recognize garif handicraft; this is Jahara.

Her body groans. Her limbs feel heavy and stiff, but the bed is wonderfully comfortable, and for an instant, she feels a tremendous urge to drift back to sleep, letting her battered muscles get some more respite. The white radiance of the sun, the dancing luminescence above her, everything has such a hypnotic, dreamlike quality to it. But the scent of ambergris still hovers about her nose, coaxing her awake. Slowly, she follows the smell to its source, turning to her left. Just her head, the rest of her body doesn't quite feel up to the task of moving yet.

Balthier is asleep next to her, his arms folded across his chest, uncomfortably perched on a rather narrower half of bed than he is used to. Large scrapes drag across his left cheek, there's a bruise on his forehead, his usually pristine shirt is a crumpled mess, and everything about him expresses sheer exhaustion, from the dark shadows that rim his eyes, to his tousled hair.

She smiles and remains very still, unwilling to interrupt his rest. Instead, she is content to listen to his shallow, even breathing.

How long has it been? What of the others? And what of the Strahl? A diluted anxiety makes its way into her mind, yet she cannot help but feel confident. Her main, overarching thought is a reassuring one.

(It's over. And we are still here.)

She hasn't moved, but on some level, he is probably conscious that she's watching. Instants later, he stirs with a faint "mmh". His eyelids quiver, and liquid honey irises crystallize on her face. He blinks slowly—once, twice—to adjust to the radiant light.

"Ah...now _this_ is a sight to wake up to," he grins sleepily.

Slowly, he inhales and uncurls his arms, stretching like a drowsy cat. One of his hands moves in to prop up his head. After contemplating her for an instant, he brings the other one up to leave a light touch on her chin.

"Feeling better?" he asks.

She gives a small nod.

"Still somewhat numb, but it will pass. How is it that we are here?"

"Oh, dear. Don't tell me you have no memory of my reckless feats of bravery to get us out of that flying monstrosity?"

He shakes his head, striving to look disappointed.

"Truly a thankless job, this leading man business."

She smiles ruefully.

"In that case, you must remind me to make amends, when I have full usage of my limbs."

Even barely awake, he cannot let this remark pass without a glint in his eye.

"I'll make sure to remember that suggestion, my dear."

And, judging by the expression that snakes across his lips, he must see the spark mirrored in her own eyes.

"But...since you ask, we are here because this was the closest hospitable place I could think of."

He somehow brings the conversation back on track.

"The Bahamut fell almost straight into the Sogoht, so it was merely a matter of following it downstream."

"How long since the crash?"

"Three days now."

She looks slightly worried on hearing this.

"Yes, you were in rather poor shape, but they've taken good care of us here. Everything's fine now," he rejoins.

It seems to have the desired effect. Still, she presses on.

"And what of the others?"

"Oh, from what our good friends here tell us, they're all safe and dealing with the aftermath of success as best they can. I'm sure Vaan and Penelo are enjoying it, at least."

There's a hint of exasperation in his voice.

"The Strahl?"

"It had better still be in one piece when we come back for it," he shakes his head.

"You make it sound as if it will not be soon," she remarks, puzzled.

"Correct."

Her eyes question him.

"Well, I figured the boy should make a good start on his chosen path, and all that. Deserves to be spoiled a bit after all the efforts. At least, that was my reasoning. I must admit I _am_ a little worried now, but what's done is done."

"Balthier, you are not giving the ship away, are you?"

He laughs at the menacing note in her question.

"I haven't completely lost my mind yet. It's only a loan. Besides, it will serve another purpose."

Again, a question in her eyes.

"I thought we could use the temporary anonymity. This whole Vayne business has drawn a rather unfortunate amount of attention, don't you agree? It doesn't make for a particularly agreeable working environment."

She muses for an instant, then raises an eyebrow.

"So...if attracting attention is a problem—which I am not about to deny—how exactly is Vaan to make a good start if you give him the means to get even _more_ attention?"

He smirks at this.

"Very shrewd observation, my dear. Well, the boy can't quite complain of excessive popularity just yet. Besides, he rather enjoys it, and the first rule of the job has always been to do as one likes."

He pauses, and graces her with a sly side glance.

"And I never said I was above a little hypocrisy, did I?"

"It's always good to know what a paragon of virtue I have by my side," she quips.

"Don't tell me you disapprove. It would be most distressing."

"Oh, I shall do no such thing. It's more entertaining this way," she smiles.

He is silent for a few moments, then continues in a more serious tone.

"I just thought...we could do with some time to ourselves."

And the way his expression darkens momentarily speaks much more than his words. She extricates a hand from under the blanket and twines her fingers about his own. They both know all too well that there is more than one shadow lurking at their backs, hanging on their shoulders as an unseen strain, or lingering in their eyes. A dark caramel coating around his irises, slowly coagulating cuts within hers.

There is a cautious knock on the door.

"That's probably Supinelu coming to check on you," he says as he sits up, reluctantly letting her fingers go.

* * *

Even in the morning, the Jaharan summer sun could be a rather unpleasant ordeal, but, sitting as she is on the sheltered jetty, drawing lazy circles with her toes on the surface of the water, the heat is barely noticeable. Drowsy musings drift through her head, only to aimlessly float away. She has no desire to exert herself, be it physically or mentally.

They have only spent a month in Jahara, yet, somehow, it seems longer. She has not had this kind of leisure for a good while, and she catches herself wondering at how tacit hume timekeeping has become for her over the course of their recent ordeals. She is not sure whether it is a boon or a curse.

Perhaps the former. After all, it has been her environment for long enough.

Perhaps the latter. It's not as if she will ever be able to fully conform to it.

But this thought ends up drifting away just like the rest. A peaceful core has formed within her over the past month, something that insistently repels intent problem-solving. She has had her fair share.

And yet, perhaps, there is one thing...

She hears Balthier coming long before his footsteps resonate on the planks of the jetty. Sketching a lazy smile, she turns her head ever so slightly, to acknowledge his presence.

The footsteps stop at her back. The first touch is dedicated to one of her ears, as his fingers teasingly skirt its rim, and the tickling sensation sends a long shiver down her spine, curving her back to an almost perfect "S". He has learned this one very quickly, and she knows he enjoys the reaction almost as much as she enjoys the contact. Kneeling down, he gently pushes her hair aside so that his lips can take a light nip at the skin of her neck. She lets him play, revelling in the touch for a moment, then directs him into a greeting kiss.

"You are finally awake," she remarks.

"Well, I do believe I'm entitled to my rest, considering how you use me."

With a smirk, he undoes a few shirt buttons to reveal a set of reddish lines curving over his shoulder, stark against the pale skin.

Fran's expression turns apologetic.

"Oh dear...not again. I am sorry."

She reaches out tentatively to examine the scratch.

"Not at all. In fact, I'm rather proud of these," he grins, his voice a velvety undertone, caressing the implication in the words.

"Don't let it get to your head," she attempts disdain.

"Actually, I rather think I might."

His hands snake around her waist, and the idea that words can be of any use also conveniently drifts out of her mind, for the next few minutes.

And yet, as she sits reclining against him, the one thought that had previously managed to catch on returns.

"You _will_ have to think of some explanation for Yugelu if he notices, however. We're supposed to be recovering here, not gaining more war trophies," he playfully points out.

"War trophies?" she enquires, amused.

"I was going for the heroic impression, yes. Somehow, I don't think the good man could fully appreciate the real reason."

She chuckles lightly at this, but soon falls pensive. A stretch of silence, then—

"There is something I want to ask...but you may dislike the question."

Her voice is cautious.

"But you will still ask, whether I do or not. Correct?"

His tone is good-humoured and barely focussed. He has no idea of what she might be preoccupied with. Hume memory at its finest, she remarks to herself: it's so easy—or is it vital?—to shelve away the mistakes as cleanly as possible.

This only makes it harder to choose the right words.

"The ring..."

She pauses, letting the lapse convey her meaning.

"What do you mean to do with it?"

He sighs and lets his chin rest on her shoulder. For one, dizzy, irrational instant, she imagines him saying that he will keep it.

"I see why you expected the question to displease," he finally answers, "but I suppose I've only myself to thank for that."

There is no good way out of the situation, and she cannot blame him for wanting to run from this one. But the point must be made.

"The princess...she loves you."

She is not certain of what her voice sounds like. There is a sharp intake of breath at her choice of words, then a slow exhale. His usual way of responding to contrariety. She could count the number of times she has used _that_ word on the fingers of one hand. Never with herself as the subject. And now it remains on the air, like a knife in a wound.

"Yes, I know. I'd rather I didn't," he mutters.

Child, she thinks, still a child with such an imperfect grip on the notion of consequence. Her eyes stray down to his arms around her waist, waiting for more words.

"What do you think I should do?" he asks quietly.

There is a reason she tries not to force decisions on him.

"I cannot put these pieces back together for you."

She does her best not to sound severe.

"I do not judge. It would do no good, and it is past recall anyway. But you must make amends. She does not deserve the pain."

She feels him nod, and there is another silence.

"Well...the ring must be returned. The question is when. And how. I don't believe right now would be a good choice. I should probably not attempt a meeting, either."

And she can see him looking at her, out of the corner of her eye. However incongruous it may seem at first, he is right.

Now would definitely be too much of a liability. If it is anonymity they are looking for, that is not how they will find it. The princess will receive the ring. And she will not spare any effort looking for him. The whole of Dalmasca will be in an uproar, and she...She will have no rest until he is found, even if it should shatter her heart into smithereens. That is, of course, provided he does not return the ring himself. In which case, she will only be spared the searching. Not the shattering.

She needs a chance to heal. Perhaps it is for the best that she believes them dead. She does not see a better alternative than letting time and duty mend the damage.

"I agree."

With this encouragement, he continues.

"I think it might be better to wait until we next manage to land something worthwhile. Harsh for her, yes, but it would be the best way to bypass...implications."

Of course: what he said when she relinquished the ring. "_Something more valuable_"...how the words stung her then, especially since she knew he was aiming to hurt. A faint trace of the smart is still there, even if she would never shame him so far as to remind him of it.

"_Something more valuable_"...if the ring were returned now, just like that, the princess would have to feel that selfsame smart. And that would be too cruel a shock to inflict on anyone. Even had she wished her ill. Which she doesn't. Despite the fact that she may never be able to naturally say her name.

She nods to Balthier's words, and silence attempts to settle, like a bird frightened from its perch. Yet he disturbs it again.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into her hair.

And while nothing might ever be enough to quite clear the rubble of those memories, she will not let herself be defeated.

She turns to silence his regrets with her own lips. This _is_ enough. She wills it so.


	18. Wind

**A.N.** In order to resolve the Ashe situation, I had to delve into Revenant Wings, because that's where it actually happens. For those who are familiar with the game, this is an optional scene which takes place in chapter 8 after the first storyline mission. For those who aren't, all you need to know is that Ivalice is under attack, and that Dalmasca and Archadia (ie. Ashe, Basch and Larsa) have decided to join forces with Vaan & co. (Penelo, Kytes, Filo, Llyud, Balthier and Fran) in order to defend themselves. This is how the old team comes to be reunited.

* * *

**_Wi__nd _**

This is the last place he wants to be at this precise moment. The Galbana is not moving, yet an uncomfortably chill, strong breeze has free rein over the deck. But the wind is the least of his troubles.

The white and pink figure at the end of the deck, however…

He grimaces uncomfortably. He's done his best to avoid conversation, ever since the Queen and her escort arrived. Pushing Vaan to the fore, letting him take charge: after all, he was the hero of this story. But of course, that was just a convenient excuse to get by on the barest of civilities.

He could feel her eyes on him when she first walked onto the bridge of the Galbana, questioning, behind the business-like expression of someone who has a duty at hand. It's been over a year, and all she has gotten from him over this interval is her own ring, in a pouch, with the briefest of messages not even directly addressed to her. He would have expected her to understand.

But she obviously hasn't. Hope dies last, as they say, and there it was, the last, dying shred of hope in her restless blue eyes, whenever they sought him out. And it was his duty to put it down as gently as possible.

Except, of course, that guilt and gentleness rarely go together.

When Ashe excused herself from Basch's side in the sky saloon, minutes ago, she knew he could hear her. That's why she specified where she was going. That's why she half-glanced in his direction as she walked away. She needed spoken words, rather than a short, hastily scribbled missive. Both Basch and Fran turned to him at that moment, the one with wary reproach, the other with a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Go. It will be over afterwards."

And now she stands there, with her back to him, shoulders tense, hands clasped in front of her, straining to hear him approach with all her being, stoically trying to withstand the wind which tangles her pale, ashen hair. His creation, this, an image of his own past weakness, and he detests it so. Detests the game he played, detests the responsibility he pinned on her, detests the false hopes. Detests her. The more so _because_ none of this is her fault.

But this needs to be done. For both their sakes. For Fran's sake. For Basch's sake too, perhaps. There is only one way to help her, even though it will feel more like an execution than aid.

"A little drafty, don't you think?" he says, wincing under the cold breeze, "you're like to be carried off."

His voice is about the same temperature as the air, even if the tone is nonchalant, and the situation suddenly strikes him as painfully familiar. Guilt is as potent as the nethicite's power, even if his purpose is different. He fancies her teetering a little, as if the words physically collided with her.

"I wanted to feel the wind on my face. I'll not be long."

He can see the goosebumps on her arms, and even this white lie irks him. Although he knows that she cannot say anything else.

_"I was waiting for you."_

_"I wanted to speak with you."_

_"I loved you."_

_"I need to know."_

None of this she can say. And none of this he wants to hear. Yet anything that adds to the deceit that already beleaguers the situation, he cannot take calmly.

"As you say."

A careless tone, and the feint of leaving. He knows this will draw her out. She hears his attempt to move away, and her shoulders rise a fraction with the resolve to speak.

"There's something I—"

But she's not strong enough to say this. Her voice is unsteady, tremulous. A sigh breaks her sentence, a desperate attempt to hold back the tears, and he would give anything to be able to feel pity for her.

"Go on," he urges, well aware that dragging the torture out is useless.

She breathes in, shivering under the wind, swallowing the tears down, trying to maintain her decorum.

"I travelled to Rozarria not long past. I saw Al-Cid."

Wrong. His anger flares. Al-Cid…

The first time they met him, at Bur-Omisace, he was a rival in his plan, too straightforward, too shameless; only worthy of disdain. The second time, in Balfonheim…he just served as a crude mirror, an overconfident predator, more demonstrative, if less insidious than him. The invitation he proffered to her then brought the guilt home strongly enough for visible discomfort. Yet Ashe, of course, interpreted it as jealousy.

And she went. She actually made good on the proposal, curious, perhaps, to see how she was being used. Desperate enough to have something to attack him with, even if she didn't know when—or if—she would see him again.

('Thus are the mighty fallen.')

Where is her dignity? Her trap is, once again, as transparent, as threadbare as a dragonfly's wing. And he can only despise himself for having driven her to this.

"A state visit, was it?"

He willfully ignores her attack, cold irritation layering his stomach.

"A queen's work is never done."

She must see what he is doing, no one can be this blind. And yet she persists.

"You really must see a sunset in the Ambervale. It was beautiful."

He remains silent on the number of times he has seen that particular sunset alongside Fran. But he settles for something equally harsh.

"No more beautiful than the view from the Strahl, I should think."

A taunt and an implication, wrapped up snugly in one sentence, like a stone inside a snowball. This will come back to haunt him.

"If only I'd had the time to appreciate it then."

Again, the tears trill at the back of her words: she knows that she's losing. He deals the final blow.

"There's still time."

He means "time to appreciate other views, time to consider other options, time to move on", and, hopefully, she will understand this later. But of course, right now, from the way he phrases it, she can only interpret his answer as a last, cruel mockery.

"Is there, Balthier?"

She swivels round and flings his borrowed name at him like a slap. And there, glistening behind the tears, trembling in her voice, is what he has been aiming for. Indignation. It's the best means of defense against regret he can leave her with.

She walks off briskly, her hands rising to shield her arms against the harsh wind. And he knows exactly what will happen next: as soon as she is in her room, she will break down, slump to the floor and rain angry tears, with her head propped against the locked door.

And she will have no fond images to remember him by.

(Thus do the mighty rise again.)

Or so he hopes.

Fran is a white shadow at the bottom of the stairs, when he descends with an unsteady gait. He finds the nearest wall to support himself, and clutches at her proffered hand. Why or how she forgives him is still beyond him. But what matters is that she does.


	19. Phoenix

**A.N: **Here we are: this is the last chapter, set after the final confrontation with Feolthanos in Revenant Wings. For those who haven't played the game, here's a summary of the relevant plot points, so you can understand the references in the scene:

Long ago, a race called the aegyl (basically humes with wings; Llyud is an aegyl who joins Vaan & co.) were persecuted by the Occuria and forced to flee to a floating continent (Lemurés). Their leader, Feolthanos, was married to a viera and had children with her. Since viera can't fly, and it wasn't safe to send an airship, he had to leave them behind when the aegyl fled. But he hid a few pieces of auracite (a kind of summoning stone) in the Cache of Glabados in the hopes that they would one day find it and join him in Lemurés by summoning an airship he made for them (which Vaan later found and called the Galbana).  
Feolthanos' children, the Feol viera (blonde, pale and with the longest lifespan of all viera) were kicked out by the other viera and forced to live in a volcano. They never found the Cache, and Feolthanos became a legend among them, an immortal, godlike father figure. Eventually, in the FFXII timeline, one of the Feol viera, Mydia, decided to do a Fran and ran away from home. She met Velis, a Dalmascan hume, and fell in love with him. But then the war with Archadia came, he enlisted into the army and was killed at Nabudis.  
Left alone, Mydia remembered the legends about Feolthanos, and went to look for him, hoping to get him to revive Velis. But over the centuries, he had transformed into a bitter, vengeful spirit, intent on exacting revenge on Ivalice, as well as removing the souls of his fellow aegyl to spare them from suffering, but also killing their emotions. When Mydia found him, he tried to do the same to her, and when she realized that, her despair was so great that she went and killed off all the remaining Feol viera, to spare them that kind of fate, before dying herself in a fight against Vaan & co.

Thanks a lot for taking the time to read this fic, I do hope you enjoyed it!

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**_Phoenix_**

The sunsets on the sky continents were unlike anything on the surface of Ivalice. There was no solid ground for the sun to disappear behind, only an endless sea of clouds; and there was something strangely disturbing about watching it founder into nothingness. Even now, as he walked, the horizon beyond the cliffs was lavish pink and gold satin. Yet he knew that as soon as he would reach the rim of the island, he would see it: a formless, crimson ocean devouring the sun.

And Fran, dark against the apocalyptic backdrop, like a brand snatched out of the fire.

He had noticed her walking off in the direction of the cliffs a few minutes before, while trying to pay attention to some inane joke or other that Vaan had thought fit to bring up. The hesitation was momentary: it was an ideal occasion to escape the fete, the boy's elation at the aegyl gifting him with the Galbana, as well as Penelo's food. Not to mention awkwardness with Basch and Ashe, or Kytes' desperate attempts to persuade Filo not to pounce on Llyud for a goodbye kiss.

(A game, almost a farce. But they can't be expected to remember. It's too great a weight on anybody's shoulders: there was nothing we could do.)

Yet Fran remembered. And she couldn't be left to remember on her own.

They had landed both airships on an island not far from Bhujerba, where there would be enough room for victory celebrations. It was an odd setting for a triumphant party: fragments of the Lemurés islands could still be seen, slowly disintegrating into shimmering dust in the sky above them. Yet none of the aegyl who had joined them seemed to be particularly distraught over losing their homes. It was just as Llyud had said: they had new hope now, and the unconquerable belief that everything was possible. The myriads of golden fragments in the sky were like living ash for them, a dying phoenix about to be reborn.

But even that could not quite obscure the underlying tragedy.

The island they were on was almost ideally flat, with no landmarks to speak of. Just a long, smoothly featureless stretch of grass enclosed by dark clusters of rock which descended in strata and abruptly fell into the sky beneath. He picked out his way along a narrow, tortuous, vaguely defined path snaking its way to the lowest tier of the cliff, where it opened onto the conflagration of sunset, and Fran's figure, oddly small by comparison, her angular limbs skeletal against the blaze. One of her hands was in front of her face, with two fingers outstretched at an angle at the level of her mouth, as if forming a ramp to help her words rise.

He remembered the gesture from their visit to Eryut, and she had mentioned before that this was the viera's way of praying. And sure enough, he could just hear her muttering under her breath. The words made no sense, they were in her own dialect, as far as he could tell from the rare times she had used it in the past. Yet there was something mesmerizing about the sonorities, like a breath of wind among leaves. Solemn, feathery and immensely sad, floating upwards from the inferno, eerily reminiscent of the setting of the tragedy she was praying for. An outstretched hand in the dark, trying to guide lost souls home.

But Fran, Mydia and all the Feol viera were outcasts, pariahs: no home to guide or be guided to. The fact that the aegyl had been granted a second chance probably made that loss all the more difficult to accept.

(How does a pariah pray? And what do they pray for?)

The thought was almost unbearably lonesome.

He stopped at a respectful distance behind her, waiting for the soft chanting to end, for an occasion to soothe. It didn't last much longer: she soon fell silent, bowing her head to the clouds below.

"They rest, Fran," he said softly, taking a few steps closer.

"So I hope," she answered in similar, muted tones, "it's all too little too late now. I cannot help them. I never could."

He moved up to her, his fingers cautious on her shoulder. She raised it a little, brushing her cheek against his hand, a ghostly, pained smile on her lips. For a few moments, there was silence.

"Tell me..."

A wavering instant.

"...Do you think me capable of what she did?"

And there was almost inexpressible fragility in her voice. He inhaled briefly, readying the words, but then checked himself. There was another layer of meaning to her question. One that struck closer to home.

"I have no right to answer that," he finally uttered, as if he were handling porcelain.

She looked up to meet his eyes.

"As much as I would like to say 'no, Fran, I don't believe anything could make you lose yourself to that extent', we both know there is...one event I'll never get to witness."

(I will never have to watch you die.)

She averted her gaze again at this, somewhat too quickly.

"I want to tell you that you will never be like her. But I cannot be that complacent."

His hand moved to her other shoulder, encircling her back with his arm, and it struck him just how paltry the gesture looked. Too feeble for protection. Too ephemeral for support. Too...human to be entirely fitting.

"This is all I can give you," he added quietly.

There was a pause, as if she needed time to absorb the statement.

"In that case, I have a request," she finally ventured, a strange, indefinable weariness in her voice, "what happened at Ymir Qul...do not do that again."

Ymir Qul. The auralith. He had tried to keep her away from Mydia.

"What do you mean?" he frowned slightly.

"Telling me to 'see to the Strahl', that you may go play the hero out of some misplaced sense of protectiveness."

It was a reproach, yet the words weren't bitter, swathed as they were in the infinite fatigue of her voice.

"But I..."

He paused. Of course, she knew why he had done it. He had never questioned it. But he had also omitted to question the one possible consequence she was presenting him with.

All because of this damned overconfidence: the leading man never dies.

('Never say never.')

When his voice came next, there was a certain curtness to it. The kind that accompanies reluctant admission. He could almost have been holding the sentences out at arm's length. Dropping them to burn in the clouds below.

"Mydia overcame you so easily the first time. I can only imagine what she showed you. I didn't want that to happen again."

She nodded at this.

"I understand. But understand in turn: making such decisions on your own is as complacent as a straightforward answer to my question would have been."

He buried his gaze in the embers under their feet.

"Velis made the decision to face danger without giving Mydia a say, to protect her. And she was left with a choice she hadn't been allowed to make. That is why."

He could feel her eyes on him, earnest and tired.

"I want to know that..."

Her voice faltered a little.

"...when the end comes, I have made all the choices I could make to prevent it. That is a sky pirate's freedom, is it not?"

"Ah, touché," he acknowledged, with an almost automatic smirk.

"And you know what my choice will always be in a situation such as that."

(To stand by me as long as you possibly can. I know, Fran. It frightens me sometimes.)

"Very well," he simply replied, turning to face her again.

Her arm strayed around his waist, matching his own around her shoulder. They stood for a while in silence, as the last of the sunset smouldered away, two solitudes imperfectly bound by tenuous, fragile threads of flesh and bone. They would rip on their own. There was no need to accelerate the process. It was enough to hold on as best as possible.

She lowered her head to his ear.

"Take me home," came in a warm, languorous whisper.

Arms untying, only to lace fingers together. Trying to pin the shadow of her words to her lips. And then retreating footsteps; hard stitches on rock at first, then a hazy series of rustles, gently threading through the grass in the direction of the Strahl, resting on the darkening plains. The sunset had burned out. Tomorrow, it would burn again. Whether they were there to witness it or not.


End file.
